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For 1938 

An Annual Barometer of the Sentiment 
of the American People. 

Twentieth Annual Edition 


Edited by 

Oklahoma City, Oklahoma 



Copyright, 1939 
By Athie Sale Davis 


This Twentieth volume follows the plan first 
adopted in compiling these Anthologies. 

Doctor Davis had long held the idea that there 
was a relation between the poems published in news- 
papers and the sentiment of the people regarding 
current events. He decided to attempt to prove the 

Early in 1919, through press clipping agencies, he 
began gathering material. At the end of the year he 
selected from this material those poems that seemed 
to have a bearing on the events of the year. 

The .poems were then classified and tabulated. 
Only those poems were selected that seemed to possess 
sufficient merit to entitle them to preservation. 

Then the first volume, the Anthology for 1919, 
was published. 

Since 1920 the poems have been received direct 
from authors and newspapers. This has proved very 
satisfactory. For this year's volume I received over 
forty-six hundred poems. 

At the end of the first decade Doctor Davis stated 
that he was convinced that the newspaper poems were 
truly an indication of the trend of public thought 
and he eagerly looked forward to another ten years 
of this study. After his death in 1932 I continued 
the work according to his wish. 

This Anthology closes the second decade and the 
poems presented herein speak for themselves. 

I wish to express my thanks and appreciation to 
the authors, columnists and publishers for the mate- 
rial used in this book. 

Oklahoma City, Oklahoma. 


Let Me Sleep. Henry Polk Lowenstein 9 

Above the Loss, Mildred Schanck 69 

Planting Time. Kay McCullough 85 

When Opportunities Slip By. 

Tessa Sweazy Webb 109 

Snowflakes Falling. Josephine Eather 1 1 1 


(Illustration by Mildred Schanck.) 

let me sleep just where I fell 

Beside my comrades in the dell, 
Under the grass and goldenrod, 
Out where the blushing poppies nod 

And softly whisper, "All is well!" 

A peace that casts a hallowed spell 
Beyond the dark and silent cell 
Enfolds me here beneath this clod, 
let me sleep! 

Until I hear the parting knell 

And feel His great heart throb and swell 

Let be my shield this tufted sod, 

Let be my safe Protector, God, 
With whom at last my soul shall dwell. 
let me sleep! 

Henry Polk Lowenstein, 
The Kansas City (Mo,) Star. 



My heart felt strangely warmed; 
God seemed to be so near. 
My very being seemed transformed. 
His voice was saying: "Have no fear!" 

My life became no longer mine, 

God took it for his own. 

My raptured soul was His; "'Tis Thine," 

I said, "And I am Thine alone/* 

"Speak, Lord, for I am Thine; send me," 
My Soul began to sing. 
"My Grace will all suffice for thee/' 
I heard as rustle of a wing. 

"Comfortless, I will not leave thee," 
The Master truly said. 
How dear His call: "Come unto me!" 
How blest the way He led. 

J. Mitchell Pitcher 
The Alabama Christian Advocate. 


On each new war the Christ, surprised, 

Gazes in sad dismay 
To find the world uncivilized, 

Even as in His day. 

He sees death pouring from the sky. 

The screaming shell he hears, 
Sees little children bleed and die; 

His eyes are filled with tears. 

The light about His head grows dim; 

The Man of Sorrows mourns, 
For so the world returns to Him 

Once more His crown of thorns. 

Una Morce Gibson. 

The Alhambra (Calif.) Post-Advocate. 



Beneath the window of my heart 
You sang of morning wonder 
And all my chains of discontent 
Burst suddenly asunder. 

Now when I feel their grip again, 
When storms of living thunder, 
I lean to hear you singing still 
Your song of morning wonder! 

The Altadena (Calif.) Press. Lucia Trent. 

"Peeks and Peaks With Ralph Cheyney." 


If it be mockery to melt your heart and splash 
The molten magic out in shimmering globes 
Of melody that, day or night, bewitch, abash, 
Let me be mocker, too, whom song disrobes! 

If it be mockery to sing when all is dark 
Except your song and faith from which it flows, 
Aware that light endures albeit you see no spark. 
Let me, too, mock at shades when eyelids close! 

Let me set fire in song to every dread and doubt 
With half your gaily passionate nonchalance! 
Let me untimely, too ring skepticism out! 
No atheist for long can hear your trance. 

The Altadena (Calif.) Press. Ralph Cheyney. 

"Peeks and Peaks With Ralph Cheyney." 


The cup is drained and crushed; 

The ecstasy is stilled; 
No longer can love fill the day, 

But lies forever killed. 


The bitter words which wrenched 

My baffled soul apart, 
Now lie like heavy jewels 

Weighing down my heart. 

And where there once was life, 

There now is but a shell . . . 
But wait! There goes a handsome lad, 

Perhaps he'll do as well. 

The Altadena (Calif.) Press. Helen McGaughey. 
"Peeks and Peaks With Ralph Cheyney." 


I can't 

Convince myself 

With tracing roads 

On maps, my gypsy feet 

Must walk the hidden trails for 

Real content. 

Elenore Randall Lamkin. 
The Altadena (Calif.} Press. 
ff Peeks and Peaks With Ralph Cheyney." 


Five notes break through the early light, 
Spilled on the air to left and right, 
Suspended like a strand of pearls 
That scintillate in glowing swirls; 
Five notes that have no depth, no height, 
Their airy motion stopped in flight; 
Five notes that rouse a sleeping world 
While yet the morning-glory's furled 
And dew lies in the roses' throats, 
A meadow-lark's five vibrant notes 
Wing out and upward to the sun 
And lo! the morning has begun! 

The Altadena (Calif.) Press. Grace Sat/re. 

"Peeks and Peaks With Ralph Cheyney/' 



His bony fingers eagerly reach out 

To gather in his pile of glittering gold. 

In contrast with the riches all about, 

His soul appears impoverished now and cold. 

The Altadena (Calif.) Press. Sibyl Pommer. 

"Peeks and Peaks With Ralph Cheyney." 


O Voice of many ages; 

Of law and priestly vow, 
Amidst thy azure mountains, 

Why art thou silent now? 
Kings brought thee gold and silver 

And gems from o'er the sea 
O Voice of Old Jerusalem, 

What change is wrought in thee! 

Thru these earth's vast commotions 

Why dost thou lie asleep? 
O Salem, silent city, 

For thee the angels weep. 
On all the world's high places 

Thy exiles men condemn 
Is there no one to answer make 

In Old Jerusalem. 

Why doth thy harp's wild numbers 

Not bid thy sons awake 
And raise the shield of David 

Again for Zion's sake? 
Hast thou no power to quicken 

A Gideon for thee; 
To flame a bold young Bethlehemite; 

Or rouse a Maccabee? 

O thou of many ages, 

Of law and priestly vow; 


O Voice of Old Jerusalem, 
Wilt thou not answer now? 

The American Hebrew. Flora Cameron Burr, 


Great-grandma tore her silken gown 
To bind a wounded soldier's breast; 

And spun the warmest wool in town 
To knit George Washington a vest. 

Grandmother sacrificed her sheets; 

She tore and scraped them without stint, 
When Clara Barton wrote back home 

For piles of bandages and lint. 

My mother packed up first aid kits 
With sanitary gauze and cotton, 

And went without white flour and sugar 
When Allied food supplies got rotten. 

I can't imagine what I'll do 

If some Big Idiot gets heady 
And throws us into war again 

But, Uncle Sam well, I'll be ready! 

The American Legion Councillor. Helene Claiborne. 


There is the swing of springtime in the trees, 
A deep reserve of darkness round the hill; 
The lilting echo of a breaking voice 
That laughs beneath a redwood, speaks of hope 
To all the tired-out world. O changing voice, 
Sweet disharmonic tune of unset strings, 
Sing out your dreams, in broken melody, 
The song of Galahad whose heart is pure, 
Sing gallant life, and conquests yet to be, 
And youth encouraging the feet of age 
To follow brighter banners, passing by. 

The Atlanta (Ga.) Herald. Kate Rennie Archer. 



O world, lift up your head and sing, 
Bring beauty, forth to crown your king 

That you may share the peace and light 
Which angels sang that starry night. 

The shepherds saw a vision rare 
That was for all men everywhere 

Yet nineteen centuries men have set 
And have not caught the vision yet. 

The angels sang of great good will, 
The shepherds trembled on the hill 

But rose to seek the stable door 
And left to tremble nevermore. 

The wise men hurried from the east 
To give their souls a blessed feast 

For Christ was born their king to be 
And set their souls forever free. 

The virgin mother watched with pride 

And sat his manger crib beside, 
She gave her gift that glorious night 

To be man's never-failing light. 

Yet nineteen centuries have passed by 
Since Jesus came from God on high 

And we still miss the way he trod 
And lose the priceless gift of God. 

Calvin C. Rittenhouse. 
The Bangor (WYs.) Independent. 


Under the dome of a winter sky, 
Merrily whining a frosty lay, 
The whistling winds go speeding by, 
Planning their pranks for another day. 


My heart rebounds to their frosty tone, 
Sweetly their frolicking voices call, 
"Oh come and play e'er the day is flown;" 
Swiftly the feathery snowflakes fall. 

The balsam trees are shouting aloud 
A rippling song all the wood-nymphs sung, 
Their freezing breath like a silver cloud 
Is boldly all through the ether flung, 

The tinkling lilt of the brook is still, 
Buried 'neath the mantle of ice and snow, 
Its music no longer has power to thrill, 
Its song is hushed, and its voice is low. 

Gaily I sing though the days are cold, 
Love notes that are warm as days in June. 
My spirit has entered the frost king's fold, 
My heart is filled with a rollicking tune, 

So I'll shout aloud, for my heart is gay, 
The beauty of winter has filled my soul; 
'List 'til I sing you a roundalay 
While blustering snowflakes drift and roll. 

J. A, Raining. 

The Bemidji (Minn.) Northland Times. 
"Silver Shears." 


(Rhyme Royal) 

Beyond the crowded city streets, we see 
The factories and mills that roar and shake; 
America would forge ahead, would be 
An onward, upward centre, wide awake 
For something new to amplify . . . remake! 
Within the home of freedom's enterprise 
The slogan is "For loss or gain, arise!" 

Marianne Clarke. 

The Bemidji (Minn.) Northland Times. 
"Silver Shears/' 



Like felted down of the fairy's wing, 

Slowly its length unrolled, 

As thin as the song little thrushes sing; 

It gleamed, when the day was old. 

Morning found it a velvet fluff, 

Swollen to giant size, 

A fabric of glittering magic stuff, 

To dazzle unwonted eyes. 

A few hours more, and, to my dismay, 

Like to a secret flood, 

On black there was white's curious applique; 

Then it changed to the weirdest mud! 

Ethel Morgan Dunham. 
The Bemidji (Minn.) Northland Times. 
"Silver Shears." 


I heard an organ-grinder's worn-out lay 
And lived again to meet another day; 
For miracles are wrought in simple guise, 
An old refrain may sing of Paradise. 

Mabel Endresen Miller. 
The Bemidji (Minn.) Northland Times. 
"Silver Shears/' 


The tree of pine. 
Unbending, straight it stands alone, 

The tree of pine. 
Symbolic ancient Gothic shrine. 
Between the mother branch and cone 
A parting comes, a sighing moan, 

The tree of pine. 

Emma Bradfietd. 

The Bemidji (Minn,) Northland Times, 
"Silver Shears" 



Your soul has always been for me 

A white and shining thing, 

Like moonlight on a maple tree 

Or a raven's wing. 

And something echoes deep in me, 

A song no lip can sing. 

Your hand in mine is music on 

The harp-strings of my soul 

And makes what else were incomplete , , 

A little more than whole. 

Margarette Ball Dickson. 
The Bemidji (Mmn.) Northland Times. 
"Silver Shears/' 


He did not write 

For critics' praise, 

He wrote for one and all; 

The critics' choice 

It ceased to live 

But his has lived through all. 

He did not write 

A lengthy poem, 

He wrote for one and all; 

The o'er-grown vine, 

It never lived 

But his has lived though small. 

He did not write 

That high-brow verse, 

He wrote for one and all; 

That icy gem, 

It lived for some, 

But his has lived for alL 

John Harsen Rhoades. 
The Binghamton (N. Y.) Press. 



By faith 

The great unknowns 

Of life are overcome; 

And confidence to gain the goal 

Made sure. 

Through hope 

A budding faith 

Assumes great strength, and grows 

In forceful strides until, at last, 

It blooms. 

Ah, love! 

The Master's gift 

To all the world, to weld 

It heart to heart, and draws us all 

To Him* 

Edwin Coutson Clark. 
The Birmingham (Ala.) News- Age, 


It matters not the time of year, 

The week, the hour nor day, 
If cold or hot or rain or snow, 

It all shall pass away. 

It matters not so very much 

If friends be few or many, 
They, too, will mold in solid clay 

But then you won't need any. 

It matters not when night comes on 

If the covers for your bed 
Are patchwork quilts in gay designs 

Or leaves on your grave when dead. 

Monica Shipp Cline. 
The Birmingham (Ala.) News- Age. 
"The Coat Bin/ 9 



I love to sit by a shallow stream 

And watch the water ripple over small pebbles 

And there weave my long day-dream 

Away from the world's worry and troubles, 

I love to lie beneath a leafy tree 

And look up high at the blue sky, 

See the leaves weave a fancy pattern of lace 

And sail-clouds like a flimsy veil flitting by. 

I love a cloudy sunset 

With the sun gently peeping through 

Cloud-castles tinted from fawn to rose-purple hue, 

I love a slow, drowsy dawn, 

The beautiful awakening of day, 

The twittering of birds on my lawn, 

The mysterious night slipping away* 

I love to stand on a high hill, 

Scan the deep emerald valleys below, 

See the friendly, peaceable rill 

Like a silver ribbon zigzagging its flow. 

I love the twilight shadows, 

Silhouetted trees against the sky, 

The vast sweet silence 

Of day's gentle passing by. 

I love a dark, cold night 

With embers burning low, 

A friendly group and flickers of light 

And shadows that come and go. 

My very being pulsates in ecstasy 

As the beauty of the moon's silvery light 

Fills me with awe at this mystery, 

The clear blue sea of the night, 

Daisy Cauin Walker. 
The Birmingham (Ala.) News- Age, 
"The Coat Bin:' 



I sometimes pause to think awhile 

About the hemlock tree, 
That all the year is darkly dressed 

In shaggy greenery. 

I wonder if he feels regret, 

When autumns come and go, 
And still on him no passing flame 

Of loveliness bestow. 

Once on an autumn afternoon, 

As gusty wind swept past, 
I saw upon the hemlock boughs 

Some brilliant leaves held fast. 

As if the neighboring trees would give 
The gifts within their power, 

Bright token for his somber garb, 
To mark their last gay hour. 

The Blue Earth (Minn.) Post. Margaret Darant. 
"The Post Chaise/' 


The fields he loved are golden, 
And this familiar lane 
Is fringed with purple asters 
And milkweed's silken skein. 

The peace he craved has found him, 
For Death has turned the key, 
But forever purple asters 
Will speak of pain to me. 

Gernie Hunter. 

The Banner Springs (Kans.) Chieftain, 



They made him a grave on the bluff's high brow, 

And placed him there. He is sleeping now 

With his robes and his head-dress and arrows and 


While the still brown river flows on below. 
For many a mile from the top of the hill 
He had traced the path of the current's will, 
Where it wended a highway from source to mouth 
The red-man's road to the sun-drenched south. 
But now he lies in that lonely grave; 
He can never see where the cattails wave, 
He knows not the river alive with boats, 
The white man's commerce that swiftly floats, 
Now north, now south, on the river's breast, 
Where are sounds of whistle and engine's zest. 
Here the birch canoe of the chief once sailed; 
Now there is no boat of the race that failed. 
His right has passed from the virgin land . . . 
Were he living, he never could understand. 

Alberta McMahon Sherwin. 
The Bonnet Springs (Kans.) Chieftain, 
"Golden Windows." 


We come bearing flowers 

To your City of Sleep; 
And scrolls of your valor 

We'll cherish and keep. 

How poignant the silence 
And deep is our sorrow. 

A salute for today . . . 

And Peace for tomorrow! 

Lucille Iredale Carleson. 
The Banner Springs (Kans.) Chieftain. 
"Golden Windows." 



When I sec two chipmunks playing 

In their natural carefree way, ^ 
When I see two white oaks swaying 

Against a sky of gray, 
When I see two wild geese flying 

A bold course straight and true, 
Then, there is no denying 

My thoughts are all of you. 

Recalling youth and laughter, 

My eyes are warm with tears; 
And the thoughts that crowd in after 

Are of sad but sweeter years, 
Years when we bore together 

Crushing and tragic loads: 
Then I ponder, and question whether 

God meant us for separate roads, 

Rehge L, Rolle. 

The Banner Springs (Kans.) Chieftain, 
"Golden Windows." 


I promised " until Death does sever", 
But, O my dear, I meant "Forever"! 

Laveda Lilly Lathrop. 
The Bonner Springs (Kerns*) Chief tian. 
"Golden Windows." 


There's that about an ancient cottage-roof 

Endears itself to you beyond another, 

Its gray slope seems to hold both faith and proof, 

Its arms enfold you like some tiny mother, 

Its gambrel, and its over-hanging eaves 

Will shelter more than you had thought them able. 


That it will welcome you your heart believes; 

And what surprising scope is in its gable! 

Its white fence charms you with each pointing picket, 

And it is shouldered by tall hollyhocks, 

Its swinging gate has mystery of a wicket, 

Another time is marked upon its clocks, 

And any owner that was once its share 

May cross its threshold and be sometimes there. 

The Boston (Mass.) Herald. Isabel Fiske Conant. 
"Top o' the Morning/' 


Can one enjoy the moon, 

Or does it take two? 

Has every girl a beau, 

Or are there a few 

Who like myself must find 

Something to do 

The night of the ball? Well, Sir, 

I'm asking you. 

The Boston (Mass.) Herald. Elva R. Ray. 

"Top o' the Morning/' 


Down in the lane there's an oriole singing, 
High in the top of an apple tree swinging; 
Again and again, in sunshine or rain, 
A message of courage and cheerfulness bringing. 

Hark, was there ever so happy a bird? 
Joyful, he's joyful, that is the word; 
Swinging and singing, singing and swinging, 
Here's where the first real swing music was heard. 

The Boston (Mass.) Post. Marion Sherman. 

"All Sorts/' 



She let the winging years slip by r 
Her heart was young and free; 

And all the time her feet danced high 
To Pan's wild melody. 

There would be time enough for love 

And time to settle down; 
The sun would always shine above 

And Spring would wear her crown. 

But, white moon-rays caught in her hair, 

Dark shadows bound her feet; 
And suddenly, Pan's debonair 

Song held a mournful beat. 

She wanders, still, on hills at dusk, 

Playing a lonely part 
In search for love to fill the husk 

That once had been her heart. 

The Boston (Mass.) Post. Pauline S. ChadwelL 
"All Sorts/' 


Two rooms, a bath, and a kitchenette, 

The home of a couple of no renown, 
Still working as hard as when first they met, 

And still in the same mammoth store down town, 
So unprepossessing, so commonplace, 

With doubtless a struggle to keep from debt. 
Yet love is enthorned in that scanty space, 

Two rooms, a bath, and a kitchenette. 

Two rooms, a bath, and a kitchenette, 
A view of back walls and the sky above, 

Yet those who abide there all trouble forget, 
Secure as they are in each other's love. 

She sews at evening on garments small, 
And whispers of someone, a stranger yet, 


Whose coming one day shall transfigure all r 
Two rooms, a bath, and a kitchenette. 

Two rooms, a bath, and a kitchenette, 

No longer she works in the mammoth store. 
For someone has ventured their lives to upset, 

A someone who came from the mystic shore, 
Who brought such abundance of bliss and joy 

That happiest teardrops their eyelids wet, 
And love fills with rapture without alloy 

Two rooms, a bath, and a kitchenette. 

Let poets sing of a vineclad cot, 

Or a home by the seaside with salt spray wet, 
Only heaven can equal this blissful spot, 

Two rooms, a bath, and a kitchenette. 

Dr. Walter Gardner Kendall 
The Boston (Mass.) Post. 
"Alt Sorts/' 


Old stonewalls, gray-mossed, and lone, 
Remnant marks of labor's will 
In your lengths of fallen stone, 
Stretched on meadowland, and hill 
You tell silently of days, 
When each stone on you was laid 
Toilsomely, in many ways, 
Till in settled clinch it stayed. 

Though your first straight lines are bent, 
And your top-stones swept away, 
Though your sagging sides are rent 
Where foundations sink in clay 
Still around you firmly cling 
Spirit-blooms of pioneers, 
Ever freshly blossoming, 
Through the dust of passing years. 

Fhe Boston (Mass.) Post. Stephen Wright. 

"Alt Sorts/' 



The hotter the cauldron 

The purer the metal, 
The hotter the fire 

The stronger the steel; 
The shorter life's rations 

The higher our fervor, 
To sample and savor 

Utopian meal. 

Adversity, sickness, 

Unsatisfied longings, 
Despondency, heartaches, 

The depths of despair; 
They serve as a whetstone 

To sharpen our courage, 
They goad us and prod us 

To hope and to dare, 

The Boston (Mass.) Post. E. H. Clements. 

"All Sorts." 


A proud little tree 
From a hill in Vermont 
Where it pointed so straight to the skies, 
Came southward last month 
And arrived at our house; 
There it cheered our city-tired eyes. 

We welcomed this stranger 
From the green, silent wood 
It symbolized peace and good will; 

We draped it with silver, 
Soft lights and gay glass 

With a joyous, Christmas Eve thrill. 

The tree like its fellows 
From the grove on the hill, 


Played a part that was noble and fine 
It brought Christmas cheer 
With its tang of the woods, 
A breath that was gentle, benign. 

So our thanks, little tree, 
For your visit so short 
You're the outstanding holiday trump. 
And we hope that you know it 
Now that you've joined 
A grove in a drab city dump. 

The Boston (Mass.) Post. Joe Harrington. 

"All Sorts/' 


Where city traffic whisks and whirls 

Menacing life and limb, 
How calmly doth he brave its risks 

Tho his vision's dark and dim. 

With danger lurking ever near 

From vehicles whirring by, 
He waits the signal, "All is clear," 

From his sharp "Seeing Eye." 

Along the busy thoroughfare 

How jauntily they jog; 
Their mien proclaims a happy pair, 

The blind man and his dog, 

A Heavenly blessing it must be 
Like sunshine from on high; 

This guide for him who cannot see 
His faithful "Seeing Eye/* 

The Boston (Mass.) Post. E. D. C. 

"All Sorts/' 



The ceilings sag, the faded walls are bare, 
And yet a little ghost walks sadly there. 

Across the sill and up the creaking stairs, 
A little ghost kneels down to say its prayers. 

Here in this room, where Time its dust has spread 
A little ghost seeks vainly for its bed. 

Doomed, through the long, long years to walk an< 

A little ghost that cannot go to sleep. 

I could not see it, but I hear3 it call 
Through little finger-prints upon the wall. 

The Boston (Mass.) Post. Myra P. Ellis 

"All Sorts/' 


Marching and marching, 

Hear the phantom tread 
Of old men and young men, 

Of men long dead. 

Marching and marching, 

See the wraithlike brave 
When armies of war dead 

Rise from the grave. 

Marching and marching, 

The ghostly ranks go 
After war is long past 

Who is friend or foe? 

Ruth Winslow Gordon. 
The Bracken County (Brooksville, Ky.) News. 



All of my 

Life, rolled into 

One tiny 

Piece of sod; 

Would make but a tiny bean 

In any kind of pod. 

All of my 

Dreams, compressed into 

One round smooth 

Small stone, would 

Hold more priceless matter than 

Marrow in a bone. 

The Brazil (Ind.) Gazette. Frank Ankenbrand, Jr. 
"Let Us Sing/' 


We hear and know that it is the catbird's song 
And not the bulbul's whose clear note soars, 
That would bring the poet's Persia to these lanes of 

Yet disillusioned American shores. 

Here fall of rain upon pale terraced lawns 
Of evening like dreams that fade 
Among the roses of Kashmir in lost dawns 
Forms no part of what our days are made. 

This is a tautfaced, lusty land where tombs 
Are built that dwarf the pyramids 
In height and occupants, where hatred looms 
Ominously, obeys what the criminal bids. 

Though you and I would play upon our lute, 
We cannot evoke one plaintive strain. 
It cannot, will not obey our fingers, is mute, 
Is broken like our hearts with pain. 


Yet once when overhead the sky was filled. 
With storm of stars and night became 
An aria of nocturnal sounds that thrilled 
It won for us a private fame. 

How vain would be attempting return to Shalil 
For new lutes, when stars appear and the loon 
Begins to cry, nor the grove of Murdafil 
If we singr it must be a separate tune. 

We shall not know the time to sing again, 
And will be silent without those stars, 
With solitude, find fulfillment alone, and then 
Strange barriers of ice will form our bars. 

The Brazil (Ind.) Gazette. Robert L. Dark, Jr. 
"Let Us Sing/' 


Her fingers were the tapers white 
And slim, that kept his house abloom, 
Filling with beauty every room 
And warming his heart by day, by night. 

Now her dear fingers ivory-white 
Lie on her breast all cold and still 
Not all the sunlight on the hill 
At dawn or noon can break his night, 

The Brazil (Ind.) Gazette. John Richard Moreland. 
"Let Us Sing/' 


Once I had claimed this secret spot; 
The woods, the streams; 
Where now presumptuous Youth reclines, 
Dreaming my dreams. 

The Brazil (Ind.) Gazette. Virginia Spates. 

"Let Us Sing." 



Heart, where are your dreams of yesterday, 
Fragile and fragrant, with April eyes? 
Have you forgotten the wonder-way 
Of eager spring, the glad surprise 
Of purple flags in an opal bay? 
Heart, has grieving made you wise? 

Heart, has grieving made you wise, 
Wary of hurt in the breath of June, 
Shown you the sharpened sword that lies 
In the silver sheath of a crescent moon; 
The broken wings of the butterflies; 
Heart, has the autumn come too soon? 

Heart, has the autumn come too soon, 
Leaving you widowed, gowned in gray; 
Stripping the flags from the 'blue lagoon 
As only the winds of Winter may? 
Night always follows the long afternoon 
Heart, where are your dreams of yesterday? 

The Brazil (Ind.) Gazette, Carmen Judson. 

"Let Us Sing." 


From out the ground 
This spring has welled its crystal drops, 
And we both filled our mossy gourds 
Brimming to their tops. 

"Who drinks so long will turn it dry" 
(We minded not the drouth) ; 
Oh, that you would refill my gourd 
And cool my parching mouth ! 

The Brazil (Ind.) Gazette. Eloise Herring Gotham. 
"Let Us Sing/' 



I had "a little sorrow 

And oh, it bent me down! 

I dragged it through the winter 

And up to Mary town; 

And there I lost it somehow 

Or broke it all apart 

When I saw seven swords thrust 

Through Our Lady's heart. 

I had a little happiness 
When I was just nineteen, 
So took it to the palace 
And gave it to the Queen. 
And in exchange for that small 
Pilgrimage begun, 
She opened wide her palace 
And gave to me her Son. 

I had a little warfare 
And then a little peace, 
I did some little foolishness 
Just on a mad caprice. 
But now I do not worry 
But carry everything 
And leave it on the doorstep 
Of Mary and the King. 

The Brazil (Ind.) Gazette. Benjamin Musser. 

"Let Us Sing/' 


Oh trombone player of the wavery gliss, 

The while your errant music swells 

To charm her of the vacant kiss 

And him whose eyes of pain are burned-out wells 

What if they knew you stand on yesterday's 

Rich country roads, a laughing child, 

Looking on autumn fence-rows piled 


With rusty gold of sunflowers, rank with maize? . . . 

And, pianist whose leaping harmony 

No quiet fool can long withstand, 

If past the mask your facile hand 

Fashions of sharp and flat, they once could see 

Your dream of building not with passing sound, 

But with squared stones your brooding eyes 

Visions that lift from cities' ground 

White towers of steel against the steel-blue skies. . . . 

Oh slim dark girl whose plaintive chorus takes 
Wings on the clarinet's sob and flare 
Whose voice, upon the learned words, breaks, 
Rendering more still the hushed and wondering air 
These cannot know your house of no delight, 
The way of pain you walk alone 
Who takes this hour, so raucous bright 
Blindly for vain assuagement of their own. 

The Brazil (Ind.) Gazette. Richard Leon Spain. 
"Let Us Sing/' 


Life-charged at dawn, 
He is at dusk 
Only a mute, 
Dead-seeming husk. 

Day has taken 
His corn-bright words 
And fed them to 
Fatigue's dull birds. 

Toil has sent 

His dreams to bed 

And routed the thought-troops 

From his head. 

Toil has hushed 
Within his breast 


Dawn's singing lark . . . 
But give him rest 

A night of sleep 
And he will rise 
With song-blest heart 
And dreamlit eyes; 

Eager to give 
To Toil once more 
All of life's apple 
Except the core. 

The Brazil (Ind.) Gazette. Walter R. Adams. 

"Let Us Sing." 


Our pear tree burns with a white flame, 

A candle the sacristan lighted. 

And though we stand breathless 

Such ineffable beauty 

Oh do not cup your hand to shield it from the wind! 

(Why should we fear the brief interval 

When lights are spent? 

Eyes grow accustomed to flame-points, 

And hearts too long at worship 

Become indifferent. 

It is the new altar that kindles the spirit!) 

Love, we shall walk in this garden 

When the long aisles are silent, 

Save for a bell that tolls the end 

Of summer . . . 

Then, fruit will hang like golden lamps 

Above our shrine, 

And leaves, turned yellow, will fall at our feet 

Like stars! 

Ethel Johnston McNaught. 
The Brazil (Ind.} Gazette. 
"Let Us Sing." 



Want to see a Movie? 

Haven't got a dime? 
Walk in God's great open r 

Hurry! Now's the time! 
Eyes and ears wide open, 

Oh! Don't miss a thing! 
Nature's the Director, 

* 'Pageant of the Spring/' 
Women washing windows, 

Curtains on the line, 
Boys are playing marbles, 

Surely that's a sign! 
Hear the wild geese honking, 

See! They northward fly. 
Watch them form in V-shape, 

As they cross the sky. 

Crocuses are starting, 

Buds are peeping through, 
Pussywillows showing 

Grandeur all for you. 
Watch the glorious sunset, 

Let the wind blow through, 
Look for that first violet 

Smiling up at you. 
See Sir Robin Redbreast, 

Hear the Bluebird sing, 
Biggest Show on Earth, folks, 

"Pageant of the Spring/' 

The Brockton (Mass.) Enterprise. Ina L. BumelL 


What is it to think 
When you can drink 
A birdsong for breakfast? 
What is it to strive, 
When you can live 
With a breeze for a lover? 


What is it to ponder 
When there is wonder 
Of growing things? 
What is it to sing 
When with two willing wings 
You can fly beyond singing? 
What is to aspire 
When there's no higher 
Than Being? 

The Buffalo (N. Y.) Courier-Express. Rose N oiler. 


Let me see brown leaves raked in heaps, 
From grassy nooks and scent them burning, 
Weaving coverlets where the violet sleeps, 
When homing birds to the South are turning. 

Let me live in a house near the wood, 
Where leaves on my roof go swirling, 
By autumn winds in a somber mood, 
And pungent smoke from the fire is curling. 

Let me walk down a long crooked lane, 
Over mottled beds my steps wending, 
And feel brown leaves upon my head, 
A blessing to my life are lending. 

The Buhl (Idaho) Herald. Mary M. Howard. 


I often pray for a bit of skill 

To light up Beauty's taper, 

But the thoughts that echo in my soul 

Look cookoo writ on paper! 

Margaret Kuhlmann. 

The Caroline Progress. (Bowling Green, Va.) 



Did you ever look squarely at someone called self 
In the hurry and bustle and struggle for pelf, 
And though you were painted "success/* even sainted, 
Feel small as the tiniest elf? 
If you have some thousand times or so 
You are not all bluster and empty show. 

Did you ever feel uppish superior clay 

And strutting about in your own handsome way 

Become so annoying and terribly cloying 

That someone at last said his say? 

If you never did, discard this rhyme, 

It will simply be a waste of precious time. 

Did you ever crow loudly your pert, cock crow, 

Then have someone lambast you kerplunk for a row, 

Take a sound basting, and know defeat's tasting, 

And feel like a nickel that low? 

If so, give thanks in the setting sun 

To the one who did it for work well done! 

David Raymond Innes. 

The Caroline Progress. (Bowling Green, Va.) 


If dawn spells the world disillusion 
I choose a lantern light 
With glimmers aquiver with fancies 
To guide me through the night. 

If dawn means the end of dreaming, 
I would forever sleep . . . 
My eyes shall never need sun-glow 
If it gives them cause to weep. 

Sand Dune Sage, 

The Caroline Progress. (Bowling Green, Va.) 




I shall go back to sec if you are there, 
Perhaps I'll wait to hear your footsteps, low, 
And maybe I shall pause upon the way 
To listen for a voice I used to know. 

I shall await with fond expectancy 
Those moments which I used to hold, so rare; 
I shall go back, anticipating much 
To find it all fulfilled if you are there. 

Carl B. Ike, 

The Caroline Progress. (Bowling Green, Va.) 



Heart strings 
Are funny things 
They wrap around 
A bit of ground, 
A road, a tree, 
A house maybe. 
A heart string 
Still will cling 
To some token, 
Trifling thing 
Faded roses 
And will treasure 
So that money 
May not measure. 

Hearts wrap around 
A patch of sod 
As very evidence 
Of God! 

Frances M. Lipp. 

The Caroline Progress. (Bowling Green f Vcr.) 




Not from the greater sins would I be shielded 
These hold no menace through the coming year; 
Too often have I faced their threats, nor yielded . . , 

But oh, the small temptations that I fear! 
My tiny sins such giant power have wielded 
That passing decades know their throb and sear! 

Dana Kneetand Akers. 

The Caroline Progress. (Boasting Green, Va. ) 



Wind chimes 

Tinkle, tinkle 

With each faint breeze 

Gay little ornaments 

Made by the diminutive 


Lottye Humphteyville Athey. 
The Caroline Progress. (Bowling Green, Va.} 



One day while walking down the street I heard 
some music soft and sweet. I slacked my pace, and 
looking 'round a poor blind beggar man I found. 
The bellows in his organ leaked, for lack of oil the 
old thing squeaked, yet all through Schubert's Sere- 
nade I did not bear the noise it made. The tears 
rolled down the old man's cheek and I was far too 
moved to speak, but thinking he was out of luck 
I gave the old man half a buck. The old man smiled 
his thanks to me tears filled my eyes, I could not 
see. The hurdy-gurdy ceased to wheeze I turned 
away, weak in the knees. Then Hoskins grasped me 
by the arm I quickly turned as in alarm, and then 


he whispered in my ear so low that others might not 
hear: "That hurdy-gurdy man's a fake, he's got 
more kale than you can make. If he had brains inside 
his tank he'd quit the street and start a bank." It 
may be true, I do not know, but here's what sets my 
heart aglow, whene'er I meet a busted gent whose 
days on earth are all but spent, it cheers my heart to 
change his luck by giving to him half a buck. If he 
is crooked and a fraud I leave it up to him and God. 

J. C. MacManus. 

The Casper (Wyo.) Tribune-Herald. 
"Rolling Stones/' 


Dear memories still gleam when I am old 
A solace for my heart when new fads tire 
And I sit here alone beside the fire; 

Then let me feel again fond arms enfold 

And lips pressed tenderly, with faith untold 
That never needed telling when desire 
Came linked with love, nor needed to inquire 

For pledges with those eager arms to hold. 

Stay with me memories of past delight, 
And lend your radiance to the earth below, 
When evening tapers tint the afterglow 

Of twilight, and the day is nearly gone. 
Be stars of faith to spangle darkling night 

And promise me renewal with the dawn. 

Marie Tello Phillips. 
The Catholic (Pittsburgh, Pa.) Observer. 


A thousand memories of you are in the skies, 

I see remembrance in every star, 
When over fields the peace of sweet evening lies 

Tender thoughts of you come to me from afar. 


A thousand pictures of you are in my dreams, 
In waking hours your face again I see, 

I walk ever with your presence, so it seems, 
Your loving kindnesses come back to me. 

A thousand gratitudes well up in my heart, 

My tears and prayers weave garlands fair for you, 

Rose-drifted fragrance of your dear smiles impart 
Rich sent blessings of a mother fond and true! 

Anthony F. Klinkner. 
The Catholic Tribune. (Dubuque, la.) 


Dancing, I come, with a wild ecstasy 
While my mood is intense with a bird's minstrelsy. 
The sharp winds of winter have given me zest 
So I laugh at the mountains with snow on their 


Bring garlands of flowers and pile at my feet 
With lavish adornments, oh, be not discreet, 
For this is the spring-time, my pulses vibrate 
To the rhythm of life and the love of a mate. 

"Ah, scent of the grass, allure while you may; 
Earth's cloisters will hide your new love away." 

Sing on poignant rapture, fill radiant skies! 
We stand on the fore-land of earth's Paradise; 
Desirous of beauty, prodigous romance, 
Undenied, all compelling as girls in a dance. 
Love born of effulgence and cosmic release 
Is a low singing cadence and joyous caprice 
Impelled by blue skies, I accept tremblingly 
The caress which my lover, the earth, gives to me. 

Myrtle Alice McCarcy. 
The Charleston (S. C) Posf. 
"Choir Practice" 



The ways of poets the world has not sought, 
For the path to the stars with peril is fraught 
And the world loves its way, and poets their own 
But the ways of poets lead to the unknown. 

If you vision time only as moments and hours 
And tangible things and visible powers 
It is better for you to journey alone 
For the ways of poets lead to the unknown. 

If you know how the things you do are done 
And life seems clear as the noon-day sun 
Then keep to the path you chose for your own 
For the ways of poets lead to the unknown. 

If you love adventure where the star-strewn trail 

Gleams with the magic of clouds that sail 

You may journey with poets, their ways are your 

For the ways of poets lead to the unknown. 

The Charleston (S. C.) Post. Clyde R. Protsman. 
"Choir Practice:' 


Now I am old; youth has no need of me 

Except as I can cheer him on his way; 
My songs are sung let me not hush his song 

With aged pipings of a by-gone day. 
Though I grow tired I must not check his feet, 

But praise his joyous swiftness in the race; 
My torch burns down but let me show no doubt 

To dim the glow of hope on youth's bright face. 

My busy years were such a little while; 
Yet help me, God, to step aside and smile. 

The Charleston (S. C.) Post. Coleena Cooper. 

''Choir Practiced 



Blown grasses steeped in tropic sun, 
Because of you I must believe 
There's magic in the patterns spun 
By dusky fingers as they weave. 

Dream-patterns ... oh how could they still 
The gusts of winter nights and wake 
The flower of dawn beside that hill 
Whose cupped hands hold a silver lake? 

How strange a mending-basket's brim 
Can hold so much of summer joy, 
Such sorcery for every whim 
That homely tasks cannot destroy! 

Martha Lyman Shillito, 
The Charleston (S. C.) Post. 
"Choir Practice" 


I labor in sun and shade, 

Waiting for the time 

When the wild crab unfurls 

Its petaled beauty 

Above the door of a certain Spring 

When I shall hear 

The ring of steel and cut of saw 

Calling, calling 

To the open skies of April! 

God is the Commissioner 

Who sets the load limit 

And the distance of the haul 

For all the workers in the great valley, 

The Charleston (S. C.) Post. Helen M. Satitros. 
"Choir Practice." 



I wonder who's the laundry man 

Up in the sky. It's spick and span; 

Just yesterday 

The clouds were gray; 

He must have put them in a tub 

And given them a hard, hard rub, 

Then rinsed them with a bit of blue 

And hung them out. But now don't you 

Think it's quite discourteous 

To dump the water down on us? 

The Charleston (S, C) Posf. Amy Bower. 

"Choir Practice/' 


I could be proud before the ice of your disdain, 
Unmoving as a poplar tree under the winter rain. 
I could stand unbroken beneath your cruelty 
But, oh, I cannot bear it that you should pity me I 

The Charleston (S. C.) Post. Viola Cornett. 

"Choir Practice/' 


Close to earth a storm lies black. 

It growls 

A rolling cry that rocks the universe. 
Young trees are mad, and wrench the bowels 
Of the world to free their roots, with the mighty 


Of Thor who hurled fire to break old thongs * , 
O God, plumb my soul, with my heart converse, 
And string my ancient harp for nobler songs I 

The Charleston (S. C.) Posf, Mildred W. Clark. 
"Choir Practice/' 



In the wood a brown thrush sings, 
Sings an even-song of joy that brings, 
Happiness at the close of day. 
Azure and amber skies in turn fade away, 
Blue shadows stretch across the hills, 
And lengthen into purple night that fills 

At last the peaceful vales. 
The even-song of a thrush never fails 
To stir my heart with its minor melody, 
Never fails to solace the weary soul of me. 

In the wood a brown thrush sings, 
Sings an even-song around which 
Memory clings. 

Henri DeWitt Saylor. 
Fhe Charleston (S. C.) Posf. 
"Choir Practice." 


In a quiet wooded valley of New England's 

Stands a rambling old brick farmhouse where grand- 
mother lived and died. 

Its many pointed gables whisper secrets to the leaves, 

And saucy sparrows nest among its gingerbreaded 

Rain puddles in the hollowed walks that many foot- 
steps wore, 

And two old iron Beagle Hounds stand guard beside 
the door. 

These two old iron Beagles filled my childish heart 

with dread, 
Till grandma placed her slender hands upon each iron 

And told me one was Great Aunt Anne's, the other, 

Uncle Jack's, 


And of the rides each used to take upon their sturdy 

Now when God sets his sun dogs out on either side 
the sun, 

With morning's glad ascending, or when day is 
nearly done, 

I have a tender fancy they are guarding Heaven's 

Just outside that golden portal where my grand- 
mother awaits. 

The Charleston (S. C.) Post. Paulina Z. Brunt. 
' "Choir Practice." 


These scars upon my arm? A piece of shell 
At Gettysburg. It got my horse. I cried 
In drunken fury, cursing such a hell 
Of smoke and cannon, carnage glorified 
So the strong may dominate the earth. I had 
A grandsire fall at Camden; Uncle Joe 
Served with Old Hickory. My father, a lad 
Of twenty, fought in the war with Mexico. 

Shadows of war, its bitterness and pain, 
Checkered the hard won path my fathers hewed 
From many a wilderness and still remain 
Across a land conceived in fortitude. 
I've prayed for peace but I would fight again 
If Carolina needed fighting men. 

Louise Crenshaw Ray, 
The Charlotte (N. C.) Observer. 
"Charmed Circle/' 



(May 30) 

I meant to stop my cars today 
And barricade my eyes, to hide 
Forgetting till the sun was gone, 
But memory is multiplied. 

Your voice reverberating filled 
The hall of dawn like a bassoon; 
Your laughter echoed down the long, 
Illumined corridor of noon. 

The web of darkness night has spun 
Revives the brooding chrysalis 
Of your wing-haunted eyes that held 
As many captive stars as this. 

The Charlotte (AT. C.) Observer, Irene Wilde. 

"Charmed Circle" 


Men in a cornfield, 
Sun rising slow; 

Leader chanting 
Down the row: 
"Th'otv de rock; 
Kill de sparrah!" 

Corn knives flashing, 
Cold dew splashing, 

"Break de bones; 

Save de marrahl" 

Slow man on the 
Outbound track 

Meets the leader 
Coming back, 
"Caum worm 
On ya' shaddahr 


Tall corn falling, 
Leader calling: 

"Boss man 

Waitin' fo' yuhl" 
Hot sun on the 

Leader's head, 
Slow man feeling 

Almost dead, 

"Rich man sops 

Bread an 'taters!" 

Dinner bell ringing, 
Men all singing: 

"Po* man sops 

Bread an 'lasses! 9 ' 

William Stapleton Long. 
The Charlotte (N. C) Observer. 
"Literary Lantern/' 


The day is like a lettuce leaf, 

All crisp and cool, 

And nioisty, 

Like the damp of not too distant rain. 

And green, 

Like the shadows in some shady woodland pool, 

Soft opalescent light 

As though the sun would shine again. 

Stinging little breezes 

Come whistling down the hill, 

There is a hint 'of spring-time, 

But it is winter still. 

Anne Soatherne Tardy. 
The Charlotte (N. C) Observer. 
"Charmed Circle/' 



(Lyric for an Indian operetta) 

In the Moon of the Falling Leaves 

I have come, 
And the throbbing within my heart 

Is a drum. 

Like the stars of the evening skies, 
Or as moon on the water lies, 
Is the gleam of your dusky eyes 

Lo, I come! 

In the Moon of the Falling Leaves 

Come to me; 

We shall go to my tribe, my home, my tepee. 
When the winds bring the winter snow, 
You shall weave, you shall cook, and sew 
Skins of bear, and of buck and doe, 

Come with me! 
Come with me. 

Clara Edmunds-Hemingway^ 
The Chicago (III.) Tribune. 
"Line o* Type or Two." 


The hill is loquacious with squirrels, 

The meadow is vocal with larks; 

And wild crocus flames by the roadside 

With glittering buttercup sparks. 

But deep in the fir-hidden canyon 

The frosty- white traceries cling; 

And the creek lying black in the shadows 

Has no part in the cinema, Spring. 

The Chicago (III) Tribune. Ethel Fairfield White. 
"Line o* Type or Two." 



These little scraps of memory, 
I store them one by one 
As husbandmen may gather 
Grains ripened in the sun. 
And these shall be my solace, 
My sustenance and all 
By which I glean the bread of life 
No matcer what befall. 
Though winter take me unaware 
And creeping cold assail, 
I'll list my stored up memories 
And warmth shall prevail. 

The Chicago (III.) Tribune. Clarence P. Milligan. 
"Wake of the News." 


The forest is a pageant of beauty 

As autumn steals away, 

Yet a thread of sadness is woven 

Through the lavish Romany days; 

The trees that were green all summer 

Have donned their carnival dress 

And each seems to vie with the other 

To look lovelier than the rest. 

The maples are gay, carefree gypsies 

In tatters of yellow and red; 

Even the proud oaks are rakish 

With crimson wreaths on their heads; 

The ashes are regal in purple, 

While birches flash bangles of gold, 

And the viburnums' magenta pales 

By the scarlet dogwood so bold; 

The tiniest bush has been glorified 

In draperies of russet or wine, 

And the slenderest little sapling 

Is gowned like a fair Columbine; 

The festival soon will be ended 

When the north wind starts to blow, 


Taking the costumes with it 

To be changed into white shrouds of snow* 

The Chicago (III.) Tribune. M illy Walton. 

"Wake of the News." 


These things have I seen, and it was good to see 

Harvest in a year of fecundity: 

Chaff blown to gold in the face of the sun, 

And rivers of ripened wheat to run 

Higher than ever in the bins, and the sweet 

Sense of achievement, of a cycle complete; 

The thirst of a man drinking water made wine 

From a tilted gourd in the shade of a vine, 

And the hunger of a man breaking holy bread 

At the table of toil, when the feast is spread. 

To have counted the increase of stable and pen 
Is to marvel at matters beyond our ken, 
And to watch a child sleeping with one palm pressed 
In the gentle valley of a woman's full breast, 
Is to know these things have been good to see 
At harvest, in a year of fecundity. 

C. Greenlaw Flint. 
The Chickasha (Okla.) Express. 


I like a field of stubble where the wheat 
Is in the shock and heavy with its yield, 
For then the earth seems resting and replete 
With peace, and yet there plainly is revealed 
In some strange manner by the quiet soil, 
That man has gained reward for faith and toil. 

Margaret E. Bruner. 
The Christian Science Monitor. 
(Boston, Mass.) 



As I ascend still nearer to that blue 
Dome of our dwelling, bright beyond all measure, 
Whose walls are studded with each autumn hue, 
I fill my storehouse with its winter treasure 
Of burnished bronze and porphyry and jade. 
Now from this brittle leaf and moss I reap 
Something of splendor that no hand has made 
To fend me for the time of earth's long sleep. 

Now let me gather from each hill and dale 
Breath of the fern, a sprig of bittersweet 
For talisman whose magic shall prevail 
Against the ambuscade of wind and sleet. 
Now, on a skyward stair, I pause to bind 
Remembered sheaves still golden in the mind. 

Dorothy Randolph Byard. 
The Christian Science Monitor. 
(Boston, Mass.) 


He loved a shining pool, 

Reflecting the larkspur's blue 
And orange lilies too. 

He loved a shining pool. 

At sunrise now the pool 

Is magical with light, 

Like jewels and as bright, 
He loved a shining pool. 

At night within the pool 
Star curtains, fold on fold, 
The moon a marigold. 

He loved a shining pool. 

Katharine Washbarn Harding. 
The Christian Science Monitor. 
(Boston, Mass.) 



Aeroplanes see country 
Like a checkered spread, 
Rainbow-patterned, distant, 
Covering earth's bed. 

Motor cars look closer, 
Road and town are heard, 
Wooded hill and meadow 
Scarcely say a word. 

But to know the country, 
Walk a blossoming lane, 
Listen to earth singing, 
Touch spring's counterpane. 

The Christian Science Monitor. 

(Boston, Mass.) Edith Lombard Squires. 


Early one misty morning 
As I came down the glen 
I met a man from Arran 
Who had a talking wren. 

He only asked two pennies. 
Alas, I'd not a crumb! 
I watched him foot the highroad, 
The bird upon his thumb, 

I've searched the county over 
Through boreen and through glen. 
But no one comes from Arran 
To sell a talking wren. 

Fhe Christian Science Monitor. 

(Boston, Mass.) Beulah Mag. 



The love I loved at twenty 

Was such a pretty toy 
A moon, a rose, a summer, 

A song, a girl, a boy; 
Oh, I loved well at twenty, 

But not so very long; 
The love I knew at twenty 

Has vanished with the song. 

I love again at thirty; 

And oh, the time that flies 
Has made me that much older, 

But not that much more wise! 
The love I love at thirty 

Is, somehow, not for me 
Unless the chains that hold it 

Should break and love go free. 

Love died when I was twenty, 

And so, tonight, I pray 
This love will die at thirty, 

That same old careless way. 

Louise Cain Gardner. 
The Cincinnati (Ohio) Times- Star. 


In the world there's plenty doing, 
And you've heard it all no doubt, 

And, perhaps, like me, you've wondered 
What on earth it's all about. 

Franco smashes loyal forces, 

Seems as if they'd never quit, 
Russia's busy executing, 

Japs take China bit by bit. 

Hitler's doing what he pleases, 
Mussolini's sitting pat, 


Jews are being persecuted, 

They must wonder where they're at, 

France has got a case of jitters, 
Czechs are in a state of fright, 

Business vows there's a depression, 
Says it's in an awful plight. 

Taxes climb to dizzy places, 

Stocks go crashing to the ground, 

Congress coolly votes for billions, 
Sit-down strikers still abound. 

Fascism and Communism 

Spread themselves as ne'er before, 

Everything is in confusion 
Does it mean another war? 

The Cincinnati (Ohio) Times,-Star. Susie M. Best. 


"Live dangerously," we heard the despots to others 

But when we looked to see themselves brave risks and 

Alas for these bold heroes; we have always found 

Woundless, with keen-eyed, well-armed bodyguards 

around them. 

Calvin Dill Wilson. 
The Cincinnati (Ohio) Times-Star. 


The clock of time and destiny describes the circle 
as it must, 

While through the jewel-set hours we trace lost pat- 
terns in dream and dust. 

Annette Pattern Cornell 
The Cincinnati (Ohio) Times-Star. 


I have toiled and toiled at my clumsy loom, 
A-striving to weave a new dream today; 

But the thing I have wrought is lifeless and dull, 
And I have grown weary of treadle and slay. 

My warp and my woof are fully as fine, 
As those that I used in the long ago; 

But I have lost the lovely scarlet thread 

That gave my visions their glory and glow. 

So I shall mend the old dreams as best I can, 
(Oh, the dear, old dreams with their scarlet 

For better are the old dreams mended well, 
Than are new ones lusterless, soulless, dead, 

Adaline H. Tatman, 
The Cincinnati (Ohio) Times-Star. 


They said: She can not live the night. 
They did not know I heard; 
Then somewhere in a tree close-by, 
Faint chirping of a bird. 

That morning by the garden gate 
They found a fledgling, dead, 
I wonder if death came to call 
And took a bird instead. 

The Cincinnati (Ohio) Times-Star, Jessie Farnham. 


Love hung a jewel on my heart 
A long, long time ago; 

A pearl set in a talisman, 
And oh, I loved it sol 


The road was treacherous and steep, 

And somewhere along the way 
I lost the intrinsic illusion 

In the bitterness of a day. 

If only someone could show me 

The place where it fell from my heart, 

My tears of regret and forgiveness 
Would cleanse each filigreed part. 

I wear the thin chain of remembrance, 
But the locket, like youth, is gone, 

And Love is a frosted autumn rose 
Whose petals drop one by one. 

Helen Darby Berning. 
The Cincinnati (Ohio) Times-Star. 


For children sprawled in blood and tears, 
Your scutcheon bears an evil blot. 
Has Hate no qualms? Has Greed no fears 
For children sprawled? In blood and tears 
That scroll is writ. The ominous years 
Grow dark with vengeance. Wail your lot 
For children sprawled in blood and tears. 
Your scutcheon bears an evil blot. 

The Fiddler still collects his fee 

And they who dance shall pay his price. 

In terms the rashest well may flee 

The Fiddler still collects. His fee 

For children sprawled is high, you see. 

Young lambs are dear ... for sacrifice . . . 

The Fiddler still collects his fee, 

And they who dance shall pay his price. 

Norma J.ean Bunting. 
The Cincinnati (Ohio} Times-Star. 




Down the long lane of years we pass r 
Shaping insubstantial images of glass. 

The fashions in bottles and pottery change 

And the delicate patterns are lovely and strange 

That were molded five decades ago. 
Today we place ours where they glow 

To be seen and admired, and we hope that the test 
Of the years will sift out and save some of the best. 

It is something that we cannot know, 
But they're here on a shelf in a row. 

The Cincinnati (Ohio) Times-Star. Mabel Posegate. 


I walk along the road. 

It has rained. 

I smell the dank black earth, 

Freshly wet, 

A brisk wind marches down the road 

Toward me. 

It bites my face. 

I breathe deeply. 

Suddenly I think . , . 

It is good to be alive. 

I walk along the road. 

Cold sullen clouds, low, scud by; 

All the world is gray and sad. 

Though suddenly I am happy . . . 

I breathe the smells 

Of the dank black earth. 

It is good to be alive. 

The Cincinnati (Ohio) Times-Star. Cecil Miskimen. 



Turn back to God; His countless now are dead; 
The victims of man's might and power; black dread 
Mercy from Him withdrawn; our sins are great; 
The world has turned to wars and greed and hate; 
It has worshipped false gods and men now beg for 

bread ; 
Turn back to God. 

Take heed, O man, remember He has said 
Love and not hate, but your fields have run red; 
War; threats of war; rise from this low state; 
Turn back to God. 

None, none are spared; cruel price on youth's head; 
Women and children now mowed down with lead; 
What purpose served they should meet such a fate? 
Our world was beautiful; oh before it's too late, 
Free it, restore it from black martial tread; 
Turn back to God. 

Katherine Hunter Coe. 
The Cincinnati (Ohio) Times-Star. 


Wine and Woman work a spell, 
But too brief the miracle; 
I wear vine leaves in my hair 
For a space, and roses rare; 
Roses soon their petals shed, 
Soon are vine leaves withered, 
And I walk with heavy eyes 
Many miles from paradise: 
Steep the slope and ill the track, 
But a Song can call me back. 

Clark J3. Firestone. 
The Cincinnati (Ohio) Times-Star. 



How black is night in the country, how still 
And mellow with incense, drifting uphill. 
Impenetrable night a curtain whose folds 
Cling gently, yet close, fusing all it holds, 
Emotions like fear, wonder and dismay, 
A helpless impotence not felt by day; 
The brook's soft trickle of movement^ and laughter, 
The wind in the trees like a sigh coming after 
A day of repletion, expansion and peace 
All eerie sounds when day patterns cease. 
Darkness like black clouds, intangible, deep, 
Working earth's miracles while man is asleep. 

Primordial night all futilities gone 
Night knows perfection. What of the dawn? 

Alice Craig Redhead. 
The Cleveland (Ohio) Plain Dealer. 


I shall remember these when winter comes; 
White butterflies among the pansy-beds; 
Black wasps intent on daubs of yellow clay 
Along the fence where daisies nod their heads. 

I shall remember trees whose velvet trunks 
Reveal red squirrels, tense and listening, 
Where sleeping dogs lie on a gray stone step 
Beside a porch where shy wild roses cling. 

The butterflies will be the first snow-flakes 
Touching a barren tree with an empty nest; 
The clouds, black wasps whose wisp-like wings 
Make final flight in swift undaunted quest. 

Yet through the vista of these memories 
You'll move, and though you vanish from my sight, 
I still may see the roses reaching forth 
Unfolding beauty in their search for light. 


Dreams carry us beyond today, dear one. 
I am content with you, here, in the sun. 

Myrtle Reed James. 
The Cleveland (Ohio) Plain Dealer. 
"Philosopher of Folly." 


They taught me to be saving 
Of everything I had, 
My pennies and my pleasures, 
My love for a certain lad. 

But beauty comes from weaving 
Rich patterns on the loom . . . 
I wish I'd been a spendthrift 
Like apple trees in bloom. 

The Cleveland (Ohio) Plain Dealer. Margaret Senff, 


Even now a voice inaudible to men 

Has spoken softly to the blue-winged teal, 

And suddenly his being thrills with zeal 

To navigate the open skies again. 

Black tern and bobolink alike have heard 

A clear command, though not from human mouth, 

And they prepare to take the sky route south 

In answer to that inarticulate word. 

Small worshipers of the sun, their bright advent 

Gave certain presage of returning spring. 

Above the woodland now on lifted wing 

They go as swiftly as the brief -spring went. 

The summer wanes, the forest sleeps, and they 

Follow unerringly the lengthening day. 

Minnie Markham Kerr. 
The Cleveland (Ohio) Plain Dealer. 



So when you're very much inclined 
To drive your lousy hack 
Plumb over some pedestrian, 
Just turn your memory back 
To what the old-time sages said 
About slapping down a guy: 
A cuspid for a cuspid, or 
An eye swapped for an eye. 

M. Starrett Wetzel. 
The Cleveland (Ohio) Plain Dealer. 


Each spark of life is breathed in rhyme; 
The very world is beating time. 
Man's pulsing blood and mind infuse 
His heart to bursting with the muse. 
His feet are slaves to dance. And song 
Ensnares his tongue his whole life long. 
The soul is dead that, seemingly, 
Cannot find life in poetry. 

The Columbus (Ohio) Citizen. M. Starrett Wetzel. 


Today I saw a blind man smile, 
As kindly led by a young boy 

He followed down the street car aisle, 
His sightless face alight with joy. 

If he can smile, I should not sigh, 
I saw three lovely things today: 

A robin and a woodpecker, 
And a saucy bright bluejay, 

Martha Bolton Aglet. 
The Columbus (Ohio) Citizen. 
"Saturday Verse/' 



O, come and visit Nature's fair 

Of things that seem and are not there; 

Will-o'-the-wisp that lights the bogs, 

Mirages on the desert air; 

And looking closely, you may see 

Some things that are and should not be; 

Frail rings that tell the age of logs, 

Spring buds upon a snow-clad tree, 

Audacious blooms that cannot last 

Through winter's sharp, recurring blast; 

A dim star, insecurely placed 

Breaks free, a brave iconoclast; 

Now watch a wan and paling moon 

Anticipate tomorrow's noon, 

Go not away in grief or haste. 

The lovely things at Nature's fair 

Are the things that should be there. 

The Columbus (Ohio) Citizen. Grace D. Leckliter. 
"Saturday Verse/' 


Father, I am ashamed of my thoughts 

Thoughts of my heart today; 
Resentment, selfishness and fear 

Forgive me, Lord, I pray. 

I am ashamed of the unkind words 

I spoke in haste today; 
If they were sharp and caused a wound, 

Forgive me, Lord, I pray. 

Father, the kind words and the smiles 

That I withheld today; 
The weary hearts I failed to cheer, 

Forgive me, Lord, I pray. 

Ethel Titus Worthen. 
The Columbus (Ohio) Citizen. 
"Saturday Verse/' 



With gaiety my friends enfold me, 

And words of wisdom they have told me. 

They fill the room with merry chatter 
To make me think it doesn't matter. 

They introduce each bachelor brother, 
Who takes me to something or other. 

Whirled in a dance, curled in a canoe, 
I smile at them, and dream of you. 

Although it's wisdom they have told me, 
With memories you still can hold me. 

The Columbus (Ohio) Citizen. Eva Sparks Taylor. 
"Saturday Verse/' 


(Flanders Fields 1938) 

Up from the verdant .fields where crosses white 
Stand quietly beneath a tranquil sky, 
Or tremble in the chill of autumn rains, 
A sigh of protest rises heavenward, 
Weighted with bitter words that sharply fall 
On listening ears, "We gave our lives; we bought 
For mankind with our desperate agony 
The death of war an everlasting peace. 

We gave the homes, the sons we might have had; 
What profit in our sacrifice? Once more 
Land-hungry war lords shout their battle-cry 
And terror-stricken women kneel in prayer. 
The sons we might have had? If they were here 
They would be marching to the roll of drums!" 

The Columbus (Ohio) Citizen. Mamie C. Knepper. 
ft Saturday Verse." 



Will anything be left 

For remembering 
When China's heart, war-cleft 

Finds a tranquil spring? 

Will the land forget 

When cherry-blossoms fall, 

War's gleaming bayonet, 
His tents beyond the wall? 

Pushing through the dust 
Where the Yangtze flows, 

Memory's thorn will thrust 
From the wild white rose. 

The Columbus (Ohio) Citizen, Pauline Sager. 

"Saturday Verse/' 


There's a sort of cobweb fabric 

That we use to fashion dreams. 
And it's scented like the lilac 

Through its silver- threaded seams. 
It is like a fairy tissue 

In the twilight of the day; 
And we waste it without issue 

But it never wears away. 

It's a cloak that always warms us. 

And its colors never tire; 
Its sweet odor always charms us 

As it warms us to desire. 
It's a sort of cobweb fabric 

That we use to fashion dreams, 
And it's scented like the lilac 

Through its silver-threaded seams. 


It is wrapped around all mothers 

And it helps them through their pain; 
It's the thing that makes us brothers 

To the sun and wind and rain. 
It's the hope of all creation 

With its misty rainbow gleams 
It's a sort of cobweb fabric 

That we use to fashion dreams. 

The Columbus (Ohio) Citizen. Grace Phillips. 
"Saturday Verse/' 


Death I think, will only be 

Something we must meet half reluctantly, 

Like turning from a window where we stood 

Gazing upon a sunset and finding it good 

Sighing a little as the gay hues fade 

Then calmly lift the hand and draw the shade. 

The Columbus (Ohio) Dispatch. Setma Hamann. 
"Verse for Today." 


His head bent low, tears swept his eyes 
As warm rains do the April skies; 
And in a voice so filled with woe 
Said r "I I cannot let her go!" 
It seemed she answered death's command. 
Weeping he gently took her hand, 
She paused; and in that second life 
Gave back to him his noble wife! 
A neighbor heard him gladly say, 
"They let her sit up yesterday!'* 
His head was high, smiles filled his eyes 
Like sunshine in the April skies. 

Mary Schanck Golden. 
The Columbus (Ohio) Dispatch. 



(Illustration by Mildred Schanck) 

I have sensed notes in harmony 
In high winds on the hills; 

And known a rapture come to me 
In winging warblers' trills. 

I have heard music in the rain 
And laughed above heartache; 

Faith dominates the densest pain 
A heart God tunes, can't break I 

The Columbus (Ohio) Dispatch. Mildred Schanck, 
"Verse for Today." 



Poetry is a burning urge, 

A secret to be told. 
Nor can the poet rest himself 

Until the lines unfold. 

The Columbus (Ohio) Dispatch. Blanche Elliott. 
"Verse for Today." 


Ignorance is a jealous traitor, imprisoning 
Fast within straight gates, man in his struggle 
Towards the borealis of enlightenment, pinioning 
His steps with ponderous weights . . . 
Chained in his dark cell cowering, when he should 
Survey from lofty heights God's limitless cosmos, 
Unfolding, chrysalis-like; transfiguring 
Densest night. 

The Columbus (Ohio) Dispatch. Florence Denham. 


Her weary mind and listless eye can never sense 

The beauty in a fairyland of snow 

She drudges for food for her hungry brood, 

And longs for June (no matter whether flowers 

grow) , 

A promise of warmth is enough to know. 
She stands before a lonely, twisted apple tree, 
And thinks of the good red fruit it will bear 
She cannot realize against the skies 
Its loveliness and if she could, she would not care. 
To save expense, she does not use a light, 
But sits in gloom she does not see the stars march 


Nor can she understand the charm of night 
She wonders if the coal will last, 

Claudia M. Adams. 
The Columbus (Ohio) Dispatch. 
"Verse for Today/' 



In every country dooryard, 
Their petals bright unfurled, 
What hosts of gay petunias 
Brighten up this world! 

Just a common flower 
That anyone can grow, 
In the poorest soil 
They make a lovely show. 

Like lives of common people 
With homely virtues filled, 
Whose owners never realize 
The fragrance they have spilled, 

The Columbus (Ohio) Dispatch. Mabel G. Parrish. 


To make a wish 
Upon the evening star, 
And keep within 
Your heart the secret 
Of its word, 

Knowing that fulfillment 
Cannot be afar, 
This is faith. 

Jane McKay Lanning. 
The Columbus (Ohio) Dispatch. 
"Rhyme and Meter." 


In the distance 
Is a mountain. 
But, when you come 
Close to it, 
There is a path 


Around its heights 

Clearly marked 

By other travelling souls, 

The Columbus (Ohio) Dispatch. Stella Jenks. 

"Rhyme and Meter.' 3 


There is beauty in the lily 
And beauty in the rose 
When perfect form and color 
Flaunts each breeze that blows; 
But when the wind, too ruthless, 
Despoils their tints and glows, 
Leaving them torn and blemished, 
Then beauty quickly goes. 

There is beauty in perfection 
But ugliness in blight; 
For beauty is perfection 
Perfection Infinite. 

The Cumberland Pioneer. 

(Cumberland Gap, Tenn.) Alice Sutton McGeorge. 

"Doing Things." 


I never knew Aunt Lee till she was old : 

Thin lips, thin hair; fire gone, the ashes cold. 

I often pondered her as seventeen, 

Etching the pleasure Uncle John had seen. 

And when they laid her out in plain black crepe, 

With eulogy to virtue's unscathed shape, 

I wished they might have touched her throat with 

And curled her hair and fluffed it round her face, 

But after, when the mourners left the farm, 

John said, "Come little one, you're young and warm. 

Something for you/* He raised an ancient lid 


And there were silk and lace unworn . . . bright . . , 


I swirled a glossy cape, and rare delight 
Glowed in him snuffed, as though he had no right. 
"Her gifts/* he said. "She wore stout weaves instead. 
Take this the unlucky cape. She hated red," 

(Then I recalled tales of his scarlet patch 
Sown with escape, jeweled slippers, and a snatch 
Of burlesque song on the Barbary side of the track. 
Aunt Lee had branded these and brought John back. 
After, he seemed shriveled, his chin sunk under 
As though he bowed beneath incessant thunder.) 

Perhaps I was too young to mark disgrace. 

I only saw an old man fumbling lace. 

My thoughts were muddled, as a child's can be, 

With "evil/* "good," and "infidelity," 

But all at once I hated plain black crepe 

I wished Aunt Lee had worn the scarlet cape. 

Gladys Vervitle Deane. 
The Concord (N. H.) Monitor. 
*' 'Wings of Song/' 


To one with the vision and courage to do 
Each task, and admit no defeating; 

Adventurous spirit, unconquered, to you 
We lift up our glasses in greeting. 

Searching new goals in each unchartered place 
Your hazardous questing has sent you ; 

Blazing new trails into infinite space 

On wings that the morning has lent you. 

Modest, retiring, not seeking for fame t 

Yet the world in each triumph is sharing; 

History's pages will carry your name, 
A viking of courage and daring. 

The Cumberland (Md.) News. Sara Roberta Getty. 



God give me strength, that is my need 
To live this day of hardening care; 

Give me the will to march ahead, 
And every trouble, silent bear. 

The Dallas (Tex.) Journal. Wayrnan Hensley. 

Oak Cliff Edition. 


Time, an arrant pilferer, 

Treats one heartlessly 

When he steals the keepsakes held 

Long in memory; 

But he earns our gratitude 

When he takes from us 

Much that would make the tongue 

Bitter, querulous; 

Harbored grudges, fancied slights, 

Words untrue, unkind 

Noxious weeds that choke the flowers 

Of remembering mind. 

The Dallas (Tex.) Journal. Emma L. Johnston. 
Oak Cliff Edition. 


Blooming in the garden of life 

Is beauty, a blood-red rose, 
And, fed by the water of time, 

Through that garden a river flows. 

But the rose called beauty will wither 

And others will come to its place 
And grow by the banks of the river 

That flows with such smoothness and grace. 

The Dallas (Tex.) Journal. William Allen Ward. 
Oak Cliff Edition. 



I meant 

To buy you the moon 

Wrapped in palest gold 

Violets in their spicy sweet bunches, 

A star for your lovely hair . , . 

Rare scents to match your sweetness. 

Now you are gone. 
And I have only left 
The many things 
I meant to do 
To haunt me. 

Dallas (Tex.) Journal. Lexie Jean Snyder. 
Oak Cliff Edition. 


Oh, how I love the little rains 
That tip-toe down at night. 

The little rains that walk on roofs 
With timid steps and light. 

They make me think of baby souls 

So quietly they pass 
The little rains that tip-toe down 

To hide beneath the grass. 

The Dallas (Tex.) Journal Pearl Wallace ChappelL 
Oak Cliff Edition. 


They sent a song across the sea, 
But the dashing waves broke in 
Sometimes I could not hear the words 
For the water's surge and din. 

I sent a song out to the world, 
To soothe the pains of life, 


But many did not hear the words 
Above the noise and strife. 

Still I am glad I sent my song, 
For somewhere someone heard, 
The music and its accents sweet 
Though they did not hear each word. 

Minnie Roberts Dreesen. 
The Dallas (Tex.) Journal. 
Oak Cliff Edition. 


A gleaming ray, a streak of light 
Against the deep, blue petaled night 
Reflects the beams, all golden bright 
Of yonder scintillating sun. 
To rest! 

The homing wings whir high in sound, 
They rise above the cooler ground, 
For warmer is the height they found 
Above where silver waters run 
To nest! 

The Detroit (Mich.) News. Ken Hughes. 

"Random Shots/' 


I may seem glad again tomorrow; 
Today my heart is full of grief. 
No guise of mirth is mine to borrow, 
I may seem glad again tomorrow. 
This date revives forgotten sorrow, 
Another year brings no relief. 
I may seem glad again tomorrow, 
Today my heart is full of grief. 

The Detroit (Mich.) News. Will Henry Eldridge. 
"Random Shots.' 9 



I have heard God frequently 

In the whisperings of a tree; 

Have felt the strength of Him who planned 

Man's high estate and pulsing hand, 

I have caught a melody 

As God has walked the earth with me; 

Have found a song to heal all scars; 

For I have heard life's stirring bars 

Under a heaven of choiring stars. 

I have heard God frequently 

In the whisperings of a tree. 

The Detroit (Mich.) News. Magda Brandon. 

"Random Shots/' 


When children have a sudden fear 
Their fright will leave if Dad is near; 
Especially at night in bed 
When dreams have left a haunting dread. 

He still remembers though now grown 
How fear is greater when alone. 
To too was once a little lad 
Whose terror faded, hugging Dad. 

The Detroit (Mich.) News. Guitlaume. 



She wears- those earrings not because she fancies 
So much their gaudy brass, as for a pride 

In ancestry, that never will have perished 
Till she has died. 


Her fathers' fathers in the jungle darkness 
Took precedence by rings in ear and lip, 

Considering the white intruder wastrel, 
Who thus let slip 

The chance to deck his parts and add attraction 

To pallid plainness. We are so remiss! 
Since what are ears and lips for, anyhow, 
If not for this? 

John Gallinati Whidding. 
The Detroit (Mich. ) News. 
"Random Shots/' 


Your bedtime, little daffodil, 

And we must climb the stair-step hill. 

Now up we go ... that was not far 
With mother ahead as choo-choo car. 

Just sec those moon-waves upon your bed 
With you, the captain, at their head. 

Yes, we will cruise and talk a while 
Before you drift to Sleepy Isle . . . 

And "now I lay me" . . . yes, my dear, 
Guardian-angels listen near. 

The Denver (Colo.) Post. Anne Phillips Rattan. 


Some people feel that lovely hands 
Are manicured and white; 
A hand that holds a rain-drenched rose 
By mellow candle light. 

But ah, I say behold old hands, 
Their lilac veins, the lines 


That tell of sacrifice, and wars; 
These hands set out the pines. 

Her hand has rocked the cradle 
Carved from an ancient oak, 
While his has fashioned all alone 
The cumbrous oxen -yoke. 

So when I feel discouraged 

Or caught by inward fears, 

I like to watch old people's hands 

The hands of pioneers. 

The Des Moines (Iowa) Dispatch. Zella Wallace. 
"Iowa Poets Corner/' 


In sober green they guard the long grey roads, 
Through summer sun and rain; 
When autumn sends her chilling blast 
Down winding road and lane 
A ghostly cavalcade fares forth, 
With creak of leather; straining trace; 

Rumble of cart and swish of goad, 
And feet that pace in measured beat 
The long grey road; a phantom host 
That blazed the trail and bore the load. 
At dawn they stand like grenadiers 
Crimsoned by the blood of pioneers. 

Jocile Webb Pearson. 
The Des Moines (Iowa) Dispatch. 
"Iowa Poets Corner." 


When evening comes, when western winds have sung 
Their sunset hymns across the silent fields, 

When, in the far ethereal depths, are hung 

The myriad stars, like angels' glancing shields 


When evening comes, when toils are cast aside, 
And by the flickering hearth I muse alone, 

Thru gloomy years the stars of memory glide, 
To light anew the shadows life has thrown. 

I close my eyes, and all around me rise 
Faces and forms, in mind's distinct array, 

To live the past again, with all that lies 
Treasured therein, and not yet gone astray. 

Then, in the darkness, hands are clasped in mine, 
Whose loving touches often soothed my pain, 

And voices breathe, in gladness or repine 

The cherished thoughts the heart doth e'er retain 

The kindly deeds the cheering words that sent 
To thirsting souls their dew, as summer's rain 

Dispels the drouth, in rainbow colors blent, 

They shine, undimmed by years, with lambent 

What though the daylight fade and darkness reign? 

Along life's path the starlight lingers still; 
And love's fond message comes, in sweet refrain, 

To yearning hearts, their longing to fulfil. 

O drifting fancies! Echoes still you seem, 

Borne from the cloudland of the farther shore 
The angel songs these visions of a dream 

When evening comes when evening comes no 

Ed. C. Volkert 
The Dubuque (Iowa) Telegraph-Herald. 


183& (Territorial Centennial) 1938 

Slowly the weary oxen trek toward the western sun, 
And ever ahead of a pale faced horde, swiftly the red 

gods run. 
From ambush, the cliff and the boulder, the red gods 

turn to defend. 


There is death on the mesa, blood on the sage, but the 

red gods run, in the end. 
Listen tonight in the silence, with an ear to the prairie 

Through the pulse-beat of a nation, and the small 

still voice of God 
You will hear in the prairie moonlight, the oxen 

strain at the load r 
The creaking of hand made axles and the swish of 

the urging goad r 
In the lead of the phantom thousands trek toward 

the western sun, 
You will hear the sound of moccasined feet, on the 

trails where the red gods run. 

The Dubuque (Iowa) Tribune. Nora E. Huffman. 
"A Poem for Today." 


Tears are for those who keep 
Ceaseless vigil on the deep, 
For those who wait upon the shore 
Knowing that no, never more 
Will they return who set sail 
Where the blinding waters flail, 
Lashing ships in lone seas afar 
Underneath the pale night star. 

Anthony F. Ktinkner. 
The Dyersville (Iowa) Commercial. 


I'm in love with the zest of modern youth, 

With its jaunty air, 

Its spirit of dare, 
As it earnestly seeks for the truth. 

I love the courage of youth of today; 
As, facing its tasks, 


With boldness it asks 
For its share of the dragons to slay, 

I'm in love with the youth of fire and flame; 

The set of its chin, 

The spirit to win, 
As it gives all it has in the game. 

God, give to this wonderful youth, I pray, 

The spirit of right 

The strength of Thy might, 
To meet the demands of its day. 

The Emeryville Herald. Tom Watt. 

(Oakland, Calif,) 


You who seek forgetfulness in death, 

Weary ones, . . . 

Frustrated, failing to find fulfilment 

What shall I say to you? 

What songs shall I sing? 

I cannot keep silence, it weighs 

In my throat like a stone. 

Yet, I would not plague you with platitudes, 

Or beguile you with one false hope, 

weary ones! Have I no song to help you? 

1 see you go unto night, that black-robed priest 
That he may absolve you , . . Never, never 
Can the night absolve you I 

Strange shadows, but add to your terrors, 

You go, tangled in the maze the street-lights weave. 

I must stay you from this madness! 

I cry out the words of the poet, 

"It is better to live!" 
Time, the grey-beard will absolve you, 

"It is better to live!" 
I draw back grateful for the shadows 
Lest I wound you 


With that final barb the pity of my eyes 
I whisper, "It is better to live/' 

And I turn away sorrowing for I know death, 
Only death, can absolve you. 

The Enid (Okla.) News. Given Hendrickson. 


It's nice 

To have a chart 

And calmly follow it 

But I know how much I'd rather 


Edith Ainsfield Wolf. 

Fletcher's State Rights Farming. (Hondo, Tex.) 
"The Muses' Garden/' 


I am an aristocrat. 

I choose my own associates. 

I choose this murmuring water, and these stones over 

which it runs. 
These are my companions. 
I name my own comrades. 

The sunset spreads fiery flames along the purple hill 


The crests burn resplendently. 
These burning hills, too, are my associates. 
These are the company I keep. 
These are my friends. 

William Sheppard Sparks. 
Fletcher's State Rights Farming. (Hondo, Tex.) 



Oh that my plow could waken you 
With its share of shining steel 
And open up long rows to warm 
Your heart with newborn zeal. 
Awake! there's rows of waving corn 
And the kiss of robin feet, 
Awake to the feel of the shining plow, 
Dismiss lethargic sleep. 

M. Schaffer Connelly. 
Fletcher's State Rights Farming. 
(Hondo, Tex.) 


The full moon's beauty's never known so well 
As when her gold is filtered through dark trees 
Whose leafy-fingers, silhouetted, tell 
Their plaintive tales in black-cut traceries. 

Jessica Morehead Young. 

Fletcher's State Rights Farming. (Hondo, Tex.) 
"The Muses' Garden/' 


If some 

Soft note of mine 

Has reached the weary heart 

Of a traveler on the trail 

Of life 

And caused 

Him to lift up 

A sad and drooping head 

Then surely I've not wooed the Muse 

In vain. 

Fletcher's State Rights Farming. Fletcher Davis. 
(Hondo, Tex.) 
"Anvil Sparks." 



The fanner follows his shining plow, 

Turning the earth with its sturdy prow, 

For the tangy air holds a hint of Spring 

As the wild gees rise on thrumming wing 

With migrant cry. But the farmer knows 

It is time to plant, though the north wind blows, 

And somehow, Nature's mystic grace 

Sets the seal of peace on his tranquil face, 

Kay McCullough. 

Fletcher's State Rights Farming. (Hondo, Tex.) 
"The Muses Garden." 



He weaves relentlessly upon life's loom, 
With filmy, tangled skein at either end, 
A pattern so obscure few comprehend 
These threads run from the cradle to the tomb. 

So pitiless with wary, watchful eye 
His shuttle flies across the web of years; 
The wailing hearts he neither heeds, nor hears, 
Until he breaks the weft none can retie; 

Those slender cords of joy, of love, of hate ! 
This swarthy, subtle weaver known as FATE, 

The Farina (///.) News. E. Lisette Herrling. 


I reach across the forest hills 
Where silver streams flow singing; 
I reach across the miles to you 
With arms outstretched in bringing 

Some little token of my love; 
A thought, a song, of flowers ; 
Breathing still the breath of spring 
Through all the winter hours: 

Tea roses sprayed with orange bloom 
In Grecian vase of blue, 
Would be my gift this birthday time, 
My gift of love to you. 

Then I would add a candle stick 
Lit with the evening star; 
That you may croon at shadow time 
A song with your guitar. 

The Forks (Wash.) Forum. James Egbert. 



I flung ambition like a rope 

Among the stars, 

Then breathed a hope 

That some Immortal tarrying near 

Would bind it to a glittering sphere 

Then I could climb with swiftest stride 

The road that leads to fame and pride. 

The coil came back with startling haste; 
Then since I find the road slow-paced 
And rough and long and dull and dreary 
To even crawl there makes me weary, 
I wonder, gained, that if the spoil 
Would be so precious or wouldn't soil 
The burning fire that leads men on 
Such roads as I've turned back upon. 

The Forks (Wash.) Forum. Elsie Barras Jermy. 



Trees are 

Mystic mansions, 

Where pixies and 

Dryads dance and weave spells 

Man comes here to meditate 


The Calf Leaf Farmer. 

(Wendell, N. C.) Jennie Claire Ulan. 

ff Scimitar and Song/' 


The Voice whispered low to a laddie at play, 

(Merry he was and strong) 
"The world's grown weary of war and strife, 

Come, Kenneth, and give it a song!" 


He echoed the strains of the storm and stream; 

The birds o* a dewy morn; 
The schoolman's glees; the joys and griefs 

Of the ones where he was born. 

Cadence and chords of a gracious home; 

A kindly father's care. 
Comrades around a friendly door; 

A gentle mother's prayer. 

The stirring songs of a stirring world; 

Of silvery mystic spells; 
The far-off dip of a boatman's oars 

And sweet cathedral bells. 

East or West where his feet were bent 

Short be the stay or long 
Ever the Voice to his manhood called: 

"Come give to the world a song!" 

Gladly and freely he strewed the gift, 

Owning it not his own, 
Till he followed the unseen path where each 

Goes out from the sight alone. 

Call it not death when you think of him, 

Tho the eye with sorrow fills; 
His voice yet rings on the city street, 

On fragrant summer hills. 

The Giver giveth the gift for aye 

When used to His delight 
Sweeter the song of the singer rolls 

Thru years of endless light. 

Cadence and chords of memory; 

Of silvery mystic spells; 
The far-off dip of the Boatman's oars 

And sweet cathedral bells. 

Flora Cameron Burr. 
The Grand Forks (N. D.) Herald. 
"That Reminds Me." 



The old-time theatres come into view, 

When I reminisce about the other days. 

The old has points to give unto the new, 

If modern "stars" would only stop and gaze , , . 

And learn that seasoned troupers had their ways; 

That fame is just an evanescent thing 

Like memory ... it doesn't always cling! 

There are a few that don't relive the past, 

Because they're vain and worry 'bout their ages, 

But I am proud that I am of the last, 

That trouped around the kerosene-lit stages, 

I cared not for fame nor immense wages, 

But lived for my art, and that alone, 

Tho oft the recompense was like a stone. 

But I have had my day of sweet acclaim, 

And suppose that I am quite forgotten now ; 

That is the penalty of fleeting fame, 

But I would do it all again, I vow; 

There's thrills attending each recall and bow, 

That only a real Thespian can know, 

When he's aware that he has stopped the show! 

The Harrisbutg (Pa.) Courier, Flozari Rockwood. 


The soap got lost in the saucepan, 
Where to find room for the spoon: 
Your bed's doubled up in the closet 
Hal We're Hvin' in a furnished room! 

That corner makes a good pantry, 
But where shall we hide the broom? 
Dad's slippers slipped into his pillow case 
Such a nice, little furnished room! 


Yes, your books must move while we eat our meal, 

But, doesn't that steak taste good? 

Ma cooked it all on the two-burner stove 

I don't see how she could. 

And, when the lamp is lighted, 

And the gas log toasting our toes; 

There's as much of home in this furnished room, 

As our rich, lone neighbor knows. 

The Hartford (Conn.) Times. Joan Seward. 

"The Poet's Corner." 


White Death with bitter breath 

And icy eyes 

Now sweeps from northern steeps; 

His leaden thighs 

Astride the brittle side 

Of plunging wind. 

Beneath a dazzling sheath, 

He deftly pinned 

The earth -with frigid mirth 

Embossed his name 

On oaks whose fevered cloaks 

Ran scarlet flame. 

His hands fit cerecloth bands 

Around dead hills 

Lampoons of frosty runes at window sills. 

He hangs with frozen fangs 

From sluggish eaves 

His hair is tangled where 

Once lilac leaves 

Were green he draws a screen 

Of crystal lace 

To veil the river's pale 

Unconscious face. 

White Death with panting breath 

Rides down the sky! 


How long before his thong 
Will hush my cry? 

The Hartford (Conn.) Times. \ r an Fitz-Patrick. 
"The Poet's Corner." 


Grave little feet on a road of old, 
Red little hood on a head of gold, 

Sapient eyes on a northern sky, 
So did a dear little girl go by! 

Tight little arm on a burden pressed. 
Reticent lips on a message stressed, 

Firm little mind on a charge elate, 
So did a dear little girl grow great! 

Warm little heart on a wintry night, 

Still little soul in a white delight, 
High little head as the highest star, 

So did a dear little girl go far! 

Pilgrim I come to her lovely land, 

Stop where the larch and the pine tree stand, 

Hearing again in their cadence sweet, 
Lifting and falling of little feet, 

Ethel Bunce Simonson. 
The Hartford (Conn.) Times. 
"The Poet's Corner." 


I who will be dust, 
A handful of gray dust, some day, 
Why do I grieve about the things 
The little things upon the way? 

How small they are 

How little do they mean to me, 


What imprint could they make upon 
The hours of eternity? 

Yet now they seem 
Gigantic figures looming high, 
Clouding all time with pain and fret, 
Shutting out beauty, darkening the sky. 

O let me forget 

The foolish turmoil of these trifling things 
Remembering how my body will be only dust, 
How my spirit will have found its shining wings. 

The Hartford (Conn.) Times. Ellen M. Carroll. 
"The Poet's Corner." 


< Munich, September, 1938) 

They talked of peace, while each one's nervous hand 
Was on his hilt, ready to draw and fight; 
They pled for compromise, though well they knew 
That tanks and caissons rumbled through the night. 

And with each dreaded morn the foeman frowned 
Granting another racking day's delay. 
Pretending to withhold the call to arms; 
The while his legions gathered for the fray. 

They knew that when a few more days had passed, 
All talk and compromise would be in vain; 
The border then become the battle- line, 
And Caesar's spirit waken once again. 

The Hartford (Conn.) Times. Robert Lahrs. 

"The Poet's Corner." 


Gently the Trade winds sigh over the palm trees, 
Heavy with perfume of flowers and sea. 

Softly it whispers a song of the tropics, 
A melody in perfume it carries to me, 


Ginger and Maile sweet scent of the Islands. 

Crimson hibiscus like blood in the sun. 
Pale sweet gardenias that die if you touch them 

Myriad perfumes all blended in one. 

Night-blooming cereus the flower of moonlight, 
Blooms in one night but is gone with the dawn. 

Shower trees brilliant, a riot of color 
A thousand tints flamboyantly worn. 

Jasmine, like stars fallen out of the heavens, 

Leis of Ilema as gold as the day. 
Fragrant mokahana, pungent and spicy 

Ylang-ylang with incense of far off Cathay. 

Chain of love to furnish the motif 

That binds your heart to these islands divine. 

Rainbows of color and romance in perfume, 
To bewitch the senses like old, old wine. 

George B. Pratt, 

The Honolulu (T. #.) Star-Bulletin. 
"Our Own Poets/' 


There's something in your Irish eyes 

Your eager, smiling face, 
That neither boasts nor yet defies, 

But wins an honored place 
In every heart your lack of fear, 

Even your gay untruth 
Have somehow made of you the peer 

Among our nation's youth. 

The Indianapolis (Ind.) News. Margaret E. Bruner, 
"Hoosier Homespun/' 



The year, 'twixt fruit and blossom, 

Stands hesitant and gray; 
The hour, too soon for darkness, 

Bids brief farewell to day. 

Now stilled the late lark's carol 
The mocking bird is dumb; 

The hills are cased in purple 
And dark delphinium. 

And where the fox hound loiters, 

In dusk's soft interlude, 
There curls the sleeping vixen, 

Walled in by solitude. 

Oh day, and day receding, 
How strong the silver thread 

That will not free the living 
Nor liberate the dead! 

Hazel McGee Bowman. 
The Indianapolis (Ind.) Star. 
''Contributed Verse." 


Lightly I squandered my Guinea gold 

On delicate ladyships, 
With little of value in the hold 

For all of my three moon trips, 

Odds and ends of a harbor town, 
Trinkety ware of foreign lands. 

My silver rang when I threw it down 
And none of it stuck to my hands, 

I have some coppers, dull as earth, 

In a sodden pouch I keep, 
Enough, I think, to get me a berth 

Where I can lie down and sleep. 

The Kansas City (Mo.) Journal. Yetza Gillespie. 



John Milton Smither mows me down 
And stomps with "magic feet"; 

But still I wear a glory-crown, 
And have enough to eat. 

He fits his poem to the form 

In latest ornate style, 
Then bares his breast to meet the storm 

That blusters for a while. 

Inversion makes him sick at heart, 

Contraction still is worse, 
And dull cliche the fatal dart 

Lands him in the hearse. 

Henry Polk Lowenstein. 
The Kansas City (Mo.) Journal. 


The dreams I carry in my heart 

Have kept the stealthy years at bay; 

Though gossamer, no thrust of time 
Can tear them quite away. 

Within the castle of my mind 

I build them on a gleaming sand, 
No matter if they swiftly fall 

Against my outstretched hand 

For I can build them up again. 

Tall dreams . . . much taller than before . . . 
Nor mind a prowling tide that plans 

Destruction on the shore. 

Gene Boardman Hoover. 
The Kansas City (Mo.} Star. 



A many wintered cedar 

Formed a misty tower; 
It blossomed out this dawning 

With a flaming flower. 
But as the sky was lighted 

With colors interstirred, 
The blossom of the cedar 

Changed to a scarlet bird! 

The Kansas City (Mo.) Star, Ralph J. Donahue. 


My little house is a tyrant! 

Though it binds me with loving hands, 
Yet they are firm, unyielding, 

And constant in demands. 

The house tells me if I love it: 

I will mend the garden gate, 
I will paint the walls, adorn the halls 

And I will no longer wait. 

So I wear another season, 

The suit and the hat out-of-date, 

That I may varnish and mend and paint, 
For the house that will not wait. . . . 

But my little house is a thing alive! 

I have known it to shed a tear! 
It has been my pal in sorrow and joy, 

Through many a passing year. 

And though it may be a tyrant, 
Yet when I have wandered long, 

It welcomes me back with outstretched arms, 
And a tender, lilting song. 

Flora Brownlee Walker. 
The Kansas City (Mo.) Star. 
"Star beams." 



The grass beneath the great elm on the hill, 

In spite of early frost, is thick and green. 

Somehow, the air beneath the tree is still, 

As if the drooping branches formed a screen 

Against the little breeze that elsewhere sways 

The limbs of lesser trees. The gray-brown weeds, 

Knee-high along the hillside's winding ways 

The narrow cattle-paths shake out their seeds 

With little rattlings in their hollow pods; 

The dry stems quiver in the gusty air. 

The hillside wash is fringed by tall, straight rods 

Of sunflower stalks; the brown ditch-sides are bare. 

Still farther off, along the pasture edge, 

Hedge-apples still hang in the leafless hedge. 

The Kansas City (Mo.) Star. Elijah L. Jacobs. 


If you remember roses against a rough stone wall, 
And I the dusty, spicy scent of chrysanthemums in 

If you remember summer nights beyond the city's 

And I recall a snowstorm, and street lights flickering 

If we should piece our memories, yours and mine 


Memories of wood and stream, memories of weather, 
What a pattern it would make, woven light and free, 
Spangled with the dreams of friends who shared a 


The Kansas City (Afo.) Star. Belle Rush. 



I am held here! 

But I should be gone into town, 
Searching for slippers to wear 

With a satin gown. 
I am held here 

By the flutter of wings, 
By golden notes from enchanting throats: 

Bound ... by such fragile things! 

The Kansas City (Mo.) Star. Viola Bailey Wilson. 


The very best gift 

That life has for us on earth 

Is just contentment. 

With it comes a peaceful mind 

And deep appreciation. 

Florence English Had den. 
The Kent/on (Minn.) Independent. 
"Garden of Song." 


A starlight cross against the sky 

Shall mark his grave as years go by. 

But, his "Buddy's" grave is bleak and bare, 

Unknown, untouched, no gentle care. 

O stars that chart the course of night, 

O Moon that has eternal might, 

Touch, too, the lonely, unmarked grave, 

Touch both these hearts they both were brave, 

And grant, O God, we not forget 

The bravery of these men who met 

The shell and fire, that we might sec 

The Stars and Stripes forever free. 

Clara A. Clausen. 
The Kenyon (Minn.) Independent. 
"Garden of Song/' 



Old Jim done went to jail again 
At least dat's whut I hear. 
He done some cuttin' on Sam's throat 
An* sliced it year to year! 

De cause ob all dis trouble 
An' whut cost Sam his life; 
Old Jim come home de udder night 
An* caught Sam wid his wife. 

It sho* is sad to hear dis, 

But I'se happy as can be 

If Jim had come home Tuesday night, 

Lawd man, it would been me! 

The Lansing (///.) Journal. Fred D. Thomas. 

"Extra! Extra!" 


Throughout the gloomy, dismal night 
My soul will strive to reach the height 
Of bliss and peace. 
But then again all through the day, 
The mortal mind will have the sway . . . 
Errors increase. 

Temptation ever proves inane: 
Veracity alone means gain , . . 
In life's travails. 

With tranquil heart and blessed soul 
I hope some day to reach the goal 
Where love prevails. 

The Lansing (HL) Journal. Zilla Vollmer Tietgen. 
"Extra! Extra!" 



To place value upon a thing, 
In coin of realm, some would belittle. 
Seeking in song, or rhyming verse, 
To find a quality above man's mettle, 
Knowing full well that estate best, 
Which holds to soul a kindly thought, 
And that warm sun, a baby's smile 
Or love's first kiss cannot be bought 
For Midas, gold. And yet through all 
There runs a touch of earth. 

The spirit may sing, while the hands must work 
And there is no shame in naming worth. 

The Lansing (III.) Journal. O. Wulfing. 

"Extra! Extra!" 


The golden days of yesteryear 

Swing open wide and free; 
And all the happy hours we spent 

Come flowing back to me. 

Those happy hours, the hours of love 

With you, O Heart of Mine, 
I treasure o'er and o'er again, 

And know each one divine. 

Our love has never gone, my dear, 

But aged in mellow tune; 
And every hour that we have left 

Shall be like days in June. 

The Lansing (III.) Journal. R. R. Hemingway. 
"Extra! Extra!" 



Dear house, oh do not haunt me so! 
It was reasonable to let you go. 

In broad daylight, when I have sight, 

It is so plain. 

No one to borrow from, no way to turn, 

Or hope of gain. 

No matter how the heart might plead and yearn, 

You had to go. 

But oh at night, without the light, 

I'm not so sure. 

In frantic dreams I rush to you; 

And beat your door. 

In ecstasy I race about each room; 

Mine many years, 

Until startled by a stranger's voice, 

I flee 

Blinded by my tears. 
Dear house, oh do not haunt me so! 
It was reasonable to let you go. 

The Lansing (///.) Journal. Lucile Withers. 

"Extra! Extra!" 


If we keep faith with men who lie 
In far-off France, we need not die 
On foreign soil. The right to life 
Was their bequest. Through bitter strife 
And broken hopes, we hear their cry . . . 

"Let false alarm and threat pass by/' 
The Stars and Stripes shall float on high 
And happiness in homes be rife 
If we keep faith. 


We find a sweeter, dearer tie 
Instead of grief, the tear or sigh; 
Forget the bugle, drum, and fife; 
We claim our right a happy life; 
No human joy shall pass us by 
If we keep faith! 

The Liberty (Mo.) Advance. Gladys Naomi Arnold. 
"Food, Fact and Fancy." 


The golden coins of music you have spent 
Across her silver balcony, my bird, 
Are sweeter than the melodies which stirred 

The heart of Juliette with sweet content 

When Romeo one night a wooing went, 

For as they spent each farewell, precious word 
It must have found life in your song just heard 

To bring the joys for which those two were meant. 

For in the music spilling from your wing 
To her high balcony above the world 
Surpassing melody by Bach unfurled, 

I feel the stir of some immortal thing. 

The glory which springs from such love as theirs 
Lives on and on in your immortal airs. 

The Liberty (Mo.) Tribune. Eris Goff. 


Little woman of long ago 

I humbly bow to you, 
I am so glad you did not fail 

The task God gave to you. 
Little woman, how brave you were 

To face the weary days, 
As on the barren plains you trudged, 

Bound humbly on your way, 


Day after day your toil was great, 

But you did not complain, 
Of burdened back or heavy load, 

Of hunger or of pain; 
Nor did you stop to rest your tired, 

Sore, stiffened limbs at all, 
Your weary head, and heavy feet 

Until the night should fall. 

Your bed, the hard, baked, prairie earth, 

Your roof, the endless sky, 
Your food, how often it was none, 

Your task to ever try. 
Then when you found your precious one 

Silent by your side, 
O'er taken by the hand of death, 

Cut down in manhood's pride, 

How difficult it must have been, 

Brave, sad, little mother, 
To turn away and leave him there, 

Partner, husband, father. 
Now alone you must lead the way 

Unfalteringly on, 
Guiding safe to the promised land 

Those sturdy little sons. 

Fm glad you taught those sturdy sons 

The faith, the truth, the way, 
That they have taught their sons in turn 

The best, the kindest way, 
God grant that I may do my part 

E'en half as well as you, 
That when I'm gone, someone may speak 

As well of me, as you. 

Fhe Logan (Utah) Herald Journal. 

Beatrice E. Linford. 



Children are skating down the street, 
Fast and faster go their feet; 
Loudly their laughter floats to me, 
They are birds uncaged and free. 

They are images of the mind, 
Little patterns hard to find, 
Patterns of life of song and time, 
Words that have no need for rhyme. 

They are the wind, the sun, the air, 
Neither here and neither there, 
They are the moment that is spent, 
The measures that make our lives content. 

Mabel W. Phillips. 
The Los Angeles (Calif.) Times. 


She bought an Easter hat, deep brown, 
With loops of braid around the crown, 
And then began a hurried round 
Of shops and stores until she found 
A rippling coat of matching shade, 
That seemed to be just for her made. 

And quickly, too, to her surprise, 
She found a gown to harmonize, 
And shoes, and scarf, and bright bouquet- 
But impulse checked her last outlay. 

Within her purse some small bills lay 
To purchase gloves for the array, 
When through her mind quick as a flash- 
Came Bowery Mission 's need of cash 

To help the outcast, in His name, 
To fan the spark in them to flame 


Of daring just to lick defeat 
And stand, again, upon their feet. 

The next mail carried those small bills 
With sympathy for Bowery's ills. 
And, though her hands in worn gloves lay, 
It was her happiest Easter day. 

Jessie Chandler 
The Madison Press. 
(London, Ohio.) 


Upon the paved roadway in truck loaded high 
With rusted old iron, two boys clattered by; 
Broken wheels and dulled plow points, worn out 

odds and ends, 

And many a gadget on which junkman depends, 
All part at one time of some farming machine 
That helped in crop planting or in keeping fields 


The boys laughed and chatted and counted the gain 
That from selling the junk load they hoped to 


Thrilled eves at the movies, a swell present or two 
That might merit a kiss from a sweetheart held true. 
The world all about them was wonderfully fair; 
Flowered fields, orchard blooms, and bird song in 

mild air. 

But when for hard dollars their junk they had 

They gave not a thought to what end it was 

That plow points would be resting, when played 

was their part, 

Deeply bedded in flesh near a cold, throbless heart; 
That cog-wheels and gadgets would be part of bomb 

To leave remnants of mothers spread over far plain; 


That odds and ends gathered to heap up junk load 
Would maim tiny babes in defenseless abode; 
That all once intended for pursuits on the farm 
Would bring to mocked millions horror, death, or 


That innocent, helpless, those charged with no crime 
Would lie bloody fragments in a very short time. 

O Pity, O Mercy, man and womanhood call 
To rise in just anger, put an end to it all! 

The boys saw the movies, won sweethearts' fond 

But what a sad price China pays for their bliss! 

Oscar H. Roesner. 

The Marysville (Calif.) Appeal-Democrat. 
"The Rambler/' 


When peace is signed and war is o'er 
What is there left beside the gore, 
The wooden legs, the tears, the debts, 
What else is there a nation gets? 

For when the victory has been won 
Has any lasting good been done; 
Save make more widows; taxes raise 
That we can't pay in all our days? 

So e'en the victor, too, has lost 
Whene'er he estimates the cost, 
And all we've gained, that we can show 
Are countless crosses, row on row. 

Ray Murray. 

The Mason City (Iowa) Globe-Gazette. 
"Barnyard Ballads" 



I can face defeat 

And the blight of years. 
I can stand misfortune's sting 

But not your tears. 
I have watched the guns 

Tear away careers: 
I've withstood gruelling disease 

But not your tears. 

Leonora Clawson Stryker. 
The Medina (Tex.) Light. 
"The New Earth/' 


Salt waves kissing a rocky shore, 
Fruit blossoms like snow on an orchard's floor, 
A robin perched high in a redwood tree, 
This is recompense for poverty. 

The Mill Valley (Calif.) Record. Margaret Groll 


We parked the car by the side of the road 
To see the President pass. 
Behind us, a background of hills and trees, 
Around us, the sun-dried grass. 

We got out when we saw the cavalcade come, 
All ready to wave and cheer. 
It seemed one moment the cars were there, 
And then, all at once, they were here. 

The big, white car went speeding by, 
I saw but a Panama hat. 
Just the same, I waved to our President. 
That was all there was of that. 

The Mill Valley (Calif.) Record. Mar go Fischer. 



As I went down to town today, 

My eyes were gladdened by the scene 

Of loveliness along the way 

In newly burgeoning bloom and green, 

And when I came to flowering plums, 

I spoke his words: "If winter comes/' 

"If winter comes/' O Shelley, dear, 
Winter still marks our calendar, 

But your immortal words bring cheer, 
"If winter comes, can spring be far?" 

For spring is very near today 

Along this lovely woodland way* 

Here is the proof for ears and eyes, 

Acacias, wild with blossoming, 
Flaunt golden banners 'gainst blue skies; 

"Rejoice! Rejoice!" the robins sing, 
"Spring even now is at your gate" 
Can summer's coming then be late? 

The Mill Valley (Calif.) Record. Addie M. Proctor. 


I've seen snow nestling in a pine tree's arm 

White cherry blossoms on a quaint New England 


Spray, like lamb's wool, on a jagged reef 
Seed-pearl lilacs in settings of emerald leaf. 

A sea gull's gleaming, snow-white breast, 
Against a sea wave's turquoise crest; 
The waving, silver tassels of a field of corn, 
But nothing yet so sweet as bloom of white 

Ruby McLeod Taylor. 
The Mill Valley (Calif.) Record. 



True wit engenders pleasure and surprise, 

A guerdon of delight. Its aftermath 
Gleams like the charm and glow in friendly 

Or like exhilaration from a quaff 
Of rare old wine. It is an art whose force 

Is understood by only those who know 
The finer things of life, whose daily course 

Will penetrate like beauty's amber glow. 

Who fails to comprehend this vital art 
Of being ready at a moment's call, 

Rues his stupidity, as when his heart 
Is heavy with regret that tastes of gall 

And as he clutches at his throat, this sigh: 
"A Golden Opportunity Slipped By." 


Tessa Sweazy Webb. 
The Mount Morris (III.) Index. 



The summer stars drip molten gold, 

More than the shallow skies can hold. 
Rivulets of escaping light, 

Spilled from the brimming cup of night, 
Spread their silver ripples wide 

Across the dusky water's tide. 
Distilled star-dust softly laves 

The rising crests of ebon waves. 

The Minneapolis (Minn.) Journal. Natalie Gardner. 


The feet of love are garbed in silent shoes 
And come and leave without a sound, 
They have no given hour, 
Nor will they go 
As told. 

They hold a magic glow 

Artifice cannot sour; 

And where they pause is hallowed ground; 

Nor do they fear to trample on taboos. 

You cannot tell or guide the course they 


But stoney hearts beneath their pound 
Are crushed to finest flour, 
At last to blow 
Pure gold. 

The old, 
Subdues its woe 
Enchanted by their scour. 
The moon upon its nightly round 
Creates and spreads for them 
The precious dews. 

Jack Greenberg. 

The Moscow (Idaho) News-Review. 
"Verses in Vogue." 



(Illustration by Mildred Scbanck) 

Snowflakes falling from the sky 
Swift as birds in homeward flight, 
When the Angelus has rung, 
Ringing out the chimes of night; 

Are you some enchanting flowers, 
Floating through the eerie light? 
Or, perhaps, angelic thoughts 
Carried here on wings so white? 

Stardust drifting from above, 
Iridescent though it be, 
Would not look so beautiful 
As new snowflakes are to me! 

Surely the celestial trees, 
Beautiful beyond compare, 
Sent their petals gliding down, 
Lest the earth be cold and bare! 

Angel's thoughts or heavenly flowers, 
Stardust falling airily 
Like the pattern of the rose, 
You're a lovely mystery. 

The Nevada State Journal 
"Poetic Nevadans" 


Josephine Eather, 


Larks trill more sweetly where the thorned leaves 


And gulls wing silver lace on clouds of black. 
When fowlers by Time's dark sea-forest slack 
Their baffled pace, they see the Godbird preen 
Its moonwhite pinions, glinting opaline 
When purple shades pursue day's thinning track, 
Or hounds break leash from dawning's fiery pack, 
And blandly coo its blessing on the scene. 

Marooned within a grove of hate and greed, 
The fowlers stalk their prey with salt of words; 
While in the heart a silent covert rears 
In which the harried dove may brood and breed, 
Where evergreens of hope lure songswept birds, 
And gull wings glisten, jewelled white with tears. 

The Montreal (Quebec) Star. Gordon LeClaire. 


The brook, a boisterous den'zen of the woods, 
Possessor is of million sparkling glints 

It captures in the glades of sun-born moods, 
Or filched from cheering dainty rainbow-tints. 

It smiles and ripples, dances, sings, 

And sends soft laughter to the sober earth, 

And thus to solemn man it sweetly brings, 
A love of life, and, too, the soul's rebirth. 

Perhaps a selfish neighbor chains its path, 
And dooms its happy course to harsh restraint; 

But yet its splashing murmurs voice no wrath, 
Nor e'en subdue its charms to grieved 


Its crystal stream bespeaks of duty done 
As it runs on in tenderest emotion, 

To its vast grave which it had proudly won 
In sepulchre of an engulfing ocean. 

To you and me, that brooklet's voice did sing 
In accents of the purest moral trend: 

That smiles and song and rainbow hues can bring 
A charm to some droop soul till our life's end. 

Herman A. Heydt. 
The New Canaan (Conn, ) Advertiser. 


Remember me a little for my tears, 

When gathered on these holy Sabbath days 

You lift your voices in a hymn of praise. 

What wars, what kingdoms won through harried 


Woke my fierce heart to sing of its despair 
None knows save I, who watched at evenfall 
The lovely Hittite by the palace wall 
Unbind the fillet from her perfumed hair. 

What grief conceived my singing none may know 
But I, the father, weeping for his child, 
Whose songs have comforted a world's deep woe. 
Not with hosannas was the Lord beguiled 
Shame and repentance plucked the sobbing strings. 
It may be well to think upon these things. 

The New York Post. Leila Jones. 

"The Conning 


He wrote it, sitting with his back against 
A blasted tree its leaves were crushed into 
The sodden earth. He did not write of war 
But of the things at home he'd known . . . before. 


He said he knew that spring had come, back home; 
He mentioned flying skates on sun-flecked walks 
And small boys' kites, and tulips in a row; 
Plum blossoms floating down, like scented snow; 

The worn place in the rug before the fire 
Where, in the evenings, his old dog would lie; 
He asked if there were cookies in the jar 
And if I still wished on the night's first star. 

He tried so gallantly to hide his fear; 
He joked, and said this might be his "swan song." 
It was as though he turned and waved his hand, 
Then started blithely into No Man's Land. 

The New York Sun, Esther Weakley. 


The poet's heart is different 

From any other heart, 
A little under-nourished 

And foolish at the start. 

But, oh, how strong for seeing 

The beauty everywhere! 
No other heart exists on 

Such rarified, pure air. 

The New York Sun. Dorothy Quick. 


I am as self-conscious with my new love 

As a girl in a new hat; 
I am afraid to meet my own eyes in a mirror 

Quite too shy for that. 

Perhaps, some far-off time when love has grown 

Older yet not thread-bare 
I shall have courage to look at myself and see 

How it has made me fair. 

The New York Sun. Marion H. Addington. 



Smooth as the power of the rhythmed sea 

Flowing in endless symphony, 

Your drum-beat feet and muscled form 

Unite with precision like a thundering storm. 

As you sleekly skim down the waiting track 

Mettled blood ripples your back. 

In the drum-drum-drum-drum-beat-beat-beat 

Moves the quenchless phantoms of your sires' feet. 

Ah, beautiful thing, tuned to strong, green sod, 

Winged are your feet with a gift from God! 

The New York Sun. Mildred W. Clark. 


(Of Modem Nations) 

They burn and plunder, murder, maim, destroy, 
Tear down old pledges without provocation; 
Then, self-applauding, in a storm of joy, 
Chant hymns, and hold a victory celebration. 

The New York Sun. Stanton A. Coblentz. 


Hunting for the truly human 

I looked for the true man 

And saw an ape at the fair 

With the circle still to square. Learning 

Breeds its own ignorance. Fame and power 

Demand a rush and pounding, 

Those who rush through rush through, and who 

Are, they but those who rush through? 

Yet truth resides in contemplation 

And comprehension of contemplation 

Not necessarily of Plato. Action explains 

A field full of folk and golden football flexions, 

Action for actors. Truth through contemplation 


Resurrects the truly human, 

Makes known the true man 

Whom these lines can scan: 

But miss his secret final point. 

The world is too much in joint. No use 

Setting that right, that squaring, that harrying: for 

The true man lives in mystery 

Of God; God his agile soul will see 

But he will not see God's majesty, 

And that is what makes you and me 

Whether man 

Or woman 





But truly 


The New York Times. Richard Eberhart. 


Now repetition is the basic thing 

Beneath the seven arts of form and sound, 

And sky, perfection of it. Blue and round, 

In summer day by day the two words sing. 

Small flecks of cloud are only grace notes twirled 

To ornament the melody of blue 

And roundness. Storm may modulate the hue 

But briefly in the summer-shining world. 

Ah, round and blue! What harmony like this 

The sky contrives? Above the bluish veil 

Of air that fringes earth, the senses fail 

And fuse in a sphere of concentrated bliss 

Of blue beyond blue, and thought blue-bright and 

Afloat in round-blue, blue-round, round-blue sky. 

The New York Times. May Williams Ward. 



I know so little of the road's beginning, 

What paths ancestral met, and merged, in me; 

Through all its way, its losses and its winning, 
About it lies a veil of mystery. 

I only know, grown weary of her spinning, 
Clotho at last shall bring it to the sea. 

The New York Times. Lalia Mitchell Thornton. 


You see, dear Lord, she never had a Christmas, 
(She was so small when she came Home to You. . . .) 
This was to be her very first on earth 
(And I had planned so many things to do. . . .) 
Behind the kitchen door still hides the tree. 
I had been counting days till Christmas night 
We wanted so to watch her first surprise, 
And see her little eyes grow big and bright. . . . 

For her first Christmas Eve, please, kindly Lord, 
Plant on some tufty cloud a tiny tree. . . . 
Have some young angel trim it bright with stars, 
And light one little candle . . . please, for me. 

The Northwest Arkansas Times. 

(Fayetteville, Ark.) Rosa Zagnoni Marinoni. 


I must grow used to peace within this house, 

To echoes of my footsteps on the stair, 

To order in his room and hers, 

And too much stillness everywhere, 

I must not listen for a banging door, 

And learn to pass unnoted shining glass 

Where fingerprints and smudges once were wont 

To make the busy hours pass. 


As I had come to know restraint and poise 

When clamour of two clashing wills spelled fight, 

So I must learn endurance of the dreadful calm 

That so harrasses me tonight! 

And yet, how much more easily I found content 

Amid the bedlam of a hectic day, 

Than I shall learn to bear the quietness 

Of rooms with them away. 

The Oakland (Calif.) Tribune. Gladys Williamson. 
"Other Fellow." 


Such different guise to ev'ry human heart! 
She hides in humble home or haunts the mart. 
Where faith and love warm an abiding place 
Rests sweet, wise happiness with shining face. 

The Oakland (Calif.) Tribune. Rosalie Childs. 
"Other Fellow" 


How long it was before man ceased to leave 

Depressions in the middle of his tread; 

How long he plodded with down-hanging head, 

Before he dared on fancy's wing to cleave 

The upper air and daringly conceive 

The dream of heaven scaled, and Tartarus dread 

(Where failing heaven he would by flame be sped) 

We may but vaguely in dim pattern weave! 

When light first broke upon that waking brain, 

And some rose-damask sunburst made him rise 

A nascent spirit in a prayer of praise, 

Though we may often ask, we ask in vain! 

All we may know is that a certain gleam 

Of beauty there transformed him in a dream! 

The Oakland (Calif.) Tribune. W. A. Godivard. 
"Other Fellow." 



He was hoping to reach California, 

But in Ireland he landed instead; 
Yet, because he had done it all backward, 

He to fame and a fortune was led: 
So he stands as a living example 

Of the folly of "struggle-and-strife," 
Since Fate is a practical joker, 

As well learn ere we've finished this life! 

For I "plastered" my ranch with a mortgage, 

Then, oh! how I'd labor and sweat, 
From the earliest dawn till the twilight, 

Just trying to pay off the debt; 
But I finally said it was useless 

To shorten my life with such toil 
And as soon as I'd slackened my efforts 

I "cleaned up" a fortune in oil! 

And for years I had longed to be married, 

Had courted the girls by the score; 
But none, so it seemed, would accept me, 

Till I vowed I would ask them no more; 
Yet as soon as I'd ceased to pursue them, 

And had put them all out of my mind, 
I perceived I could set up a harem, 

If I ever should feel so inclined! 

Whatever my aims or ambitions, 

Whatever the prizes I'd pluck, 
I have failed when I've striven the hardest, 

And I've won by the plainest of luck; 
So at last I have reached a decision 

And though some may consider me queer, 
Henceforth when a goal is before me, 

In the other direction I'll steer! 

The Oakland (Calif.) Tribune. C L Ford. 

"Other Fellow/' 



I like old men with kindly wrinkled faces; ^ 
With humor in their eyes, smiles on their lips. 

Men who have known the call of distant places, 
And learnt the ways of foreign lands and ships. 

They are so genial and wisely mellowed, 
And tolerant with youth and its desires, 

Since through the years with every sort they've 

And know to what each mother's son aspires. 

I like to see them sitting round a table 

Drinking the wine or ale which they prefer, 

While telling tales that oftentimes will label 
This one a vagabond, and that a sir. 

Now shorn of every silly inhibition, 

Content to make "Be of good cheer!" their mission. 

The Oakland (Calif.) Tribune. Eve Brazier. 

"Other Fellow" 


Wondrous! This bird of silver-gray, 

That, hovering, scans the shimmering Bay; 

Poising her wings as if for flight 

'Neath azure vault, through star-strewn night: 

Nay! Faithful vigil doth she keep 

By day, through night's hushed span of sleep; 
Joining with glistening pinions wide 

Queenly cities by restless tide. 

The Oakland (Calif.) Tribune. Joseph R. Godwin. 
"Other Fellow: 3 



They trudge along the highways 

And rest upon their rolls, 
Unkempt and ragged vagrants 

Without apparent goals. 

The traffic passes by them 

With men of wealth and home, 

Who look in condescension 
On ragged men who roam. 

Yet some with outside riches 

That glitter passing there 
Have souls unkempt and ragged, 

Not going anywhere, 

The Oakland (Calif.) Tribune. Claude Weimer. 
"Other Fellow" 


(Mokio-ariki of the House of Chiefs Considers the White Man's Country) 

The money-house in your city "bank," do you 
call it? stands high and stern, a tower of steel and 
stone. Even a chief has no such house, in my 

My house is woven of leaves, its roof of thatch; 
the poles planted firmly in earth, the rafters bound 
tight with cord and the salt wind of Heaven 
breathes through the woven panels. 

The money house in your city is much finer. Along 
its face rise mighty posts of stone. They are very 
ornamental, but they don't hold up anything. A 
lot of your pillars of society are like that. 

The Oakland (Calif.) Tribune. Clifford Gessler. 
"Other Fellow/' 



He held himself a great authority 

On every type of verse or kind of rhyme; 
A master he, in scanning poetry, 

An expert in the form, best of his time. 
He wrote precise and tritely perfect things 

On themes adapted to a master's pen, 
Of flower buds, or of a dead moth's wings, 

Of things too fragile to be felt by men. 

But those who sought a message in the art 

On which he'd spent a lifetime; 

read and then 
They turned away, still seeking in their heart. 

He'd studied form, but had forgotten men. 
His work was minute, perfect, without doubt, 
He wrote too well, who'd naught to write about, 

The Oakland (Calif.) Tribune. Veta White. 

"Other Fellow" 


When I gaze out of my window 

At the sun, 
I can count a thousand sunbeams 

Every one. 

Tumbling gladly out of cloud beds, 

Heaven's fleece. 
Rays of cheer are bounding earthward, 

For release. 

Sunshine shafts for those who'll catch them 

From the sky, 
Sunshine shafts in hearts for others, 

You and L 

Pauline Shepatd Mann, 
The Oakland (Calif.) Tribune. 
"Other Fellow." 



Brave Corrigan comes riding 

Across the moving foam! 

The dear long-lost, 

The tempest-tost, 

Is really coming home! 

The man who stepped into his crate 

And blandly lost his way; 

The lad who thot the Free State 

Was a suburb of L. A. 

Our merry, bold amnesiac, 

Our well-beloved is coming back! 

The man who cleaved the seas of air, 

The merry devil do-and-dare! 

So plan to throw the rosy sheath, 

And toss the world away, 

For the man who hung a shamrock wreath 

Around the U. S. A. ! 

The Oakland (Calif.) Tribune. May S, Greenwood. 
"Other Fellow." 


The House still stands, as shelter to its people; 
Nor can the insecurity of dreamers 

Pull it down or breach its solid walls. 
Its firm foundation is the Constitution; 
Its sinewed masonry Democracy, 

And citizens are free men in its halls. 
As once before, a Senate stopped the onslaught, 

This time, the House assumed the urgent task, 
To hurl aside from near its guarded entrance, 

A Trojan horse a nameless wooden mask. 
So, pealed afar the freedom of the fathers, 

Out to the endless oceans and the lands 
To let the world know liberty is vital, 
And America the people's House still stands. 

The Oakland (Calif.) Tribune. Gene Hassler. 

"Other Fellow/' 



(To Frank Hawks) 

Dip your wings and say farewell, 

Grey hawks of the sky. 
One of your brood has fallen here, 

Dip and say good-bye. 

Fearless in the night was he, 

Brave in the cold gray dawn. 
He knew the feel of the mighty storm 

And man its helpless pawn. 

He knew the joy of soaring wings. 

He felt the wild birds thrill. 
He rode alone with the lightning flash 

High above wooded hill. 

Dip your wings oh brave grey hawk, 

Dip them and say good-bye 
As you ride your ship on its last trip 

On through the timeless sky, 

The Oakland (Calif. ) Tribune. Bess Bevier Codde. 
"Other Fellow." 


I will not pass again this way, 

Perhaps, for many a year; 
So I must stop, the while I may, 

To dry this widow's tear. 

The road I go may lonesome be, 

And desolate and wild; 
Needing some tender memory 

I will soothe this little child. 

The night may be both long and dark, 

The way be hard to find; 
I will guide his feet toward his mark 

This brother who is blind. 


The stones will bruise my feet, no doubt, 
The path is but a narrow way; 

This maimed one let me turn about 
And lift him up today. 

"The least ye do for these, the poor, 

I seek His company; 
I follow One Who went before 

Ye do it unto me." 

William Naans Ricks. 
The Oakland (Calif.) Tribune. 
"Other Fellow:' 


I like the dusty country roads, 

On each side trees of gray; 
The deep dust-covered fields of grain 

Where yellowed grass-spears sway. 

The man-made clouds of heavy dust 
Paint roads in pastel grays . . , 

Too many bright green hours can hurt r 
I like some dusty days. 

The Oakland (Calif.) Tribune. Cora Blakesley. 
"Other Fellow." 


Peace walks not in a garden, 

Flower-gowned ; 

Nor down the aisle of tall trees, 

Dripping sunset; 

Nor across the silken sea, 


Peace comes 

When the whirlwind passes, 
When the raging sea is stilled, 
When the song of battle is forgotten, 
When the weary have rested, 


Peace comes 

When one can commune with stars, 
Knowing that the day held no hatred 
And one has been true to one's teachings. 

The Oakland (Calif.) Tribune. Leonard Cooper. 
"Other Fellow/' 


I am content with life ... I know 

Whatever comes to me, 
I'm given strength to rise above 

All harm that seems to be. 
I am content with life . . . Tho I 

Find sadness, for awhile, 
I'm given courage to conceal 

My grief behind a smile. 
Life's- plan is balanced perfectly 

With pleasure and with strife, 
Since sorrow teaches sympathy . . . 

I am content with life. . . . 

The Ohio State Journal. Katharine Neal Smith. 

44 Rhyme and Reason/' 


Happy the man with no ills to deplore 
With worldly goods to meet his needs; no more 
Of surfeit than will bring him safe content 
Who finds no use for extra augument. 

Who daily greets his tasks with cheerful zest 
His mind at ease, and all his judgments blest 
With no dark secrets for his mind to brood 
Who lives his given span and finds it good. 

The Ohio State Journal. Florence Ralston Werum. 
"Rhyme and Reason/' 



They have grown old, so very old, we say, 
And gaze upon them with our pitying eyes, 
For in their halting step a sadness lies 
These weary ones, who came a long long way. 
We do not seem to see that far-off day 
When we shall pause awhile to visualize 
That change, which creeps upon us in disguise 
And leaves us in a quandary of dismay. 

Life is companion to both age and youth, 
She wields a constant change till end of time; 
And this is true, though bitter be the truth, 
No man may cling forever to his prime. 
Each traveler must leave the ranks, retire, 
To find content in dreams beside the fire, 

The Ohio State Journal. Theressa M. DeFosset. 

"Rhyme and Reason." 


Little gray thoughts, 
Like little gray nuns, 
Slip in and out 
Among my gayer ones. 

Little sad thoughts 
Make hard hearts tender, 
I think it is well 
God lets us remember. 

The Oil City (Pa.) Derrick. Zoda Anderson. 


My father loved to see the cotton yield. 
Fve known him often to neglect to eat 
When June lay pregnant on his noon-day field, 
Or when the grass grew thick in July's heat, 


He drove his mules and his own self too hard; 

But he was burdened, thinking of his debt, 

Or if the crop would meet his needs and buy our 

So, he toiled and punched the mules and wiped the 


I never liked his cotton, nor no thought came to me 
That cotton cleanly hoed was the thing that paid 
The banker and the mortgage, gave us bread and tea. 
But I hated the grass, and sought an elm's shade, 
When father set me hoeing in the sun; 
And I hated all bankers that God ever made, 
Before his fields were harvested and done. 

The Oklahoman. 

(Oklahoma City.} Cully Drake Kirkham. 


I want to go back to the old home town, 

To a little white house all trimmed in brown; 

To walk down the road where red-bud sway, 
And sit 'neath the oaks where I used to play. 

I want to see folks whom I used to know, 
I want to go places where I used to go. 

I want to go down to the big dripping-spring 
And sit on the moss where I used to sing. 

I want to go back to the little church house, 
Where I used to go in my starched-up blouse, 

Where the precher would smile and kindly say: 
"My boy, I am glad you came today/' 

I want to go back to the old home town, 

To a little white house all trimmed in brown, 

To walk down the road where red-bud sway, 
And sit 'neath the oaks where I used to play. 

The Oklahoma News. 

(Oklahoma City.) Cecil Brown. 



In the soft grey mist which men call death 

When I reach the open sea; 

I, somehow, feel that I'll voyage on 

And a great peace waits for me. 

I, somehow, think I shall know again 

All things that make life sweet 

Birds' songs in a summer twilight, 

Green leaves flecked with golden sun, 

Blue water and sails and swooping gulls, 

Bright stars and a deep blue night. 

The silver laughter of my youth ; 

The glory of love and song; 

The radiance in the eyes of friends; 

The warmth of an open fire, 

And the sure sweet peace that is 'home' 

In the soft grey mist 

Which men call death 

When I reach the open sea; 

I somehow feel that I'll voyage on, 

When the last call comes to me. 

The Palm Beach (Fla. ) Times. Katherlne King. 


If I were blind and couldn't see, 
And all my days were dark as night, 
I'd know the blossoms on the tree 
Were golden yellow, red or white. 
In my blindness I'd see the light, 
And the warm earth all aglow 
Welcoming spring in winter's flight. 
Of these things I'd happily know 
For the cardinal's song would tell me so. 

Fhe Palm Beach (Fla.) Times. 

Madeline G. Petersen. 



Don't ever hide your failures, friend. 
Don't ever be ashamed 
When you have failed to reach some goal 
Toward which you've worked or aimed. 

The very fact that you have tried 
No jeers can e'er erase; 
And honest efforts bring rewards. 
They never bring disgrace. 

Though lazy lookers-on may laugh, 
When your plans go kaflop, 
The knowledge you have gained in loss 
Will help you reach the top. 

All good endeavors merit praise; 
So view defeat with pride. 
There's honor in sincere attempts ; 
And failures prove you've tried! 

The Palm Beach (Fla.) Times. Lyla Myers. 



If I can do some good today, 
If I can serve along life's way, 
If I can something helpful say, 
Lord, show me how. 

If I can right a human wrong, 
If I can help to make one strong, 
If I can cheer with smile or song, 
Lord, show me how. 

If I can aid one in distress, 
If I can make a burden less, 
If I can spread more happiness, 
Lord, show me how. 


If I can do a kindly deed, 
If I can help someone in need, 
If I can sow a fruitful seed, 
Lord, show me how. 

If I can feed a hungry heart, 
If I can give a better start, 
If I can fill a nobler part, 
Lord, show me how. 

The Palm Beach (Fla.) Times. Grenville Kleiser. 


Freedom for America, 
Freedom for mankind, 
Will cast into the discard 
Encumbrances that bind, 
And throw a light protective, 
Guarding sacred shores; 
While the light of love divine 
Opens unseen doors 
Away from human discords 
And selfish schemes which bind 
To cleanse throughout America 
And heal employment's blind! 

With victory glimpsed greater 

Than ever before, 

Freedom, true freedom's light 

Shall not resort to war, 

But raise the torch of Liberty 

Alone to set men free, 

And serve through lifting burdens 

By way of mastery. 

Blaze Thy light of freedom, 

Goddess, that we see 

Guide mankind and lead them 

To True Victory! 

The Palm Reach (Ffa.) Times. Paul Jam. 



We have a modern woman here today. 

One whom we call the first of this great land. 
And proudly should we all unite to stand 

Beside her to assist her on her way. 

O women far and near, do not delay 
To join the ever growing, loving band 
Of those who offer now an eager hand 

To hail this wondrous soul in work and play. 

A loyal wife and mother here we see, 
A most successful teacher, author, friend; 

How full each moment of her life must be 

With tasks both great and small that never end. 

She radiates a sweet humility 

O women, what a model to attend! 

The Palm Beach (Ffor.) Times. Emelda Deshaies. 


His hand is stilled. . . He writes no more; 
Life's curtain has come down; 
Each flashing light is somewhat dimmed 
In Old Manhattan Town. 

No more he'll stroll the Gay White Way 
For Column facts to glean, 
Rub elbows with the rich and poor 
And those who're in between. 

He's gone to where a by-line 
Does naught to bring him fame 
The Editor of a sheet called Death 
Writes "30" beneath his name. . . . 

The Palm Beach (Flo.) Times. Miles. J. O'Brien. 



All the glory of a sea sings in a storm 

When waves dash and beat the air ... 

Storm's roll of thunder 

Flinging from under 

Deep, deep echoes 

That challenge the vault of the sky. 

All the story of a world is in its water 

Covering a place that once was land, 

Hiding ^ell under 

The deep of its thunder . . . 

Long lost places 

That once looked up toward the sky. 

The Palm Beach (Fla.) Times. Elmo Russ. 



They roughly tie his hands behind his back, 

And bind a cloth across his eyes, 

A few commands and then the rifles . . . crack!! 

And thus the rebel dies. 

And they toss his body into a hole, 

Upon his face they shovel sod; 

Poor fools! To think that they can kill the soul 

Of a man by a firing-squad. 

For thus are the splendid battle-flags born 
From rags and cloth of deathless dyes! 
Bugles summon across some waiting morn, 
And rebel patriots arise . . . 
Until out of the ruins of war and hate, 
A new nation emerges, free and great! . . . 
This happens when the rebel dies, 

The Palm Beach (Fla.} Times. Tommy Murray. 



Have you orioles for neighbors? 

Have you lilacs of your own? 
Then it's not a meagre measure 

Of munificence you've known; 

For with golden notes the favors 

Of the oriole are shown, 
And of scents you'll heap a treasure 

If you've lilacs of your own! 

The Palm Beach (Fla.) Times. Stella Lavina Olson. 


They are building tourist cabins by the Suwannee 

River shore; 

There are Dine 8 Dance casinos where it swerves; 
Mr. Stephen Collins Foster wouldn't know it any 

For those Old Folks are out speeding on its curves. 

Up and down the Old Plantation runs a highway 

smooth and gray; 

Lager parlors flourish in its every bower. 
Ah, no longer is the dear old Suwannee far, far 

For they get there now at 60 miles an hour. 

Nary a Bee and not a Banjo can be heard above the 


Of the blatant music-box that shrieks out swing; 
And the radio is raucous on its every bending 

Mr. Collins wouldn't know the dear old thing. 

Brothers play no more together one sells beer and 

one sells gas 
Pa and Ma remain out dancing until day; 


But they make an eking living out of those who 

chance to pass, 
Coupled on to what they get from AAA. 

Moss that used to hang so lovely from its bearded 

live oak trees 

Now reposes in a mattress at the store: 
They've commercialized the Suwannee and its Ban- 
joes and its Bees 
Stephen Foster wouldn't know it any more! 

The Palm Beach (Fla.) Times. Vernon L. Smith. 


Not him who cannot phrase with words 
The aching loveliness that long 
Has beat its tide against his heart 
But pity him who has no song! 

Mary Ferrell Dickinson. 
The Palm Beach (Fla.) Times. 


These are my days 
These drab unending dunes 
Stretching out into infinity, 
These are my nights 
These unremembered runes 
Fading out across a moonless sea. 
Achingly I watch the running swells 
And see the ships pass by 
Interpreting my signals as farewells 
Deafened to my cry. 

The Pasadena (Calif.} Post. Edith Cherringtan. 
"Verse Section of the Writers' Club of Pasadena/' 



When morning breaks across the sea 

Above the changing rift, 
We think of diamonds and our eyes 

Are dazzled by this gift. 

But as the sun climbs higher still 

It makes a shimmering scene, 
We think of sapphires deep, deep blue 

And then of emeralds green. 

When lower sinks the shining sun, 

As through an open door, 
Topazes there in jewels rare 

Throb in the yellow ore. 

When night draws back the mystic drapes 

And light and shadows chase, 
She shows her opals to the world, 

Then shuts the jewel case. 

The Pasadena (Calif.) Post. Susan C. Cameron. 
"Verse Section of the Writers' Club of Pasadena/' 


I sat with a king in his palace 
And dined from a golden dish, 
But I went away with the hunger 
Of an unrequited wish. 

I sat at the feet of a scholar 
To taste of wisdom's bread, 
But he only sharpened my longing 
For the words he left unsaid. 

I sat with a modest comrade 
Whose table seemed small and bare, 
But we shared a crumb of beauty 
And feasted contentedly there. 

The Pasadena (Calif.) Post. Cyrus P. Dry den. 
"Verse Section of the Writers Club of Pasadena/' 



Fd like to go a gipsying, 

Far past the little town, 

A quiet spot near star-eyed flowers, 

Where I could nestle down 
And look up to a sky of blue, 
To billowed clouds afar, 
Then watch the campfire's shooting sparks, 

Beneath the gleam of star. 

To look the old moon in the face, 

And laugh away all care 
Fd like to be a gipsy maid, 

With daisies in my hair. 

The Pasadena (Calif.) Post. Alia M. Foster. 

"Verse Section of the Waters Club of Pasadena/' 


They lift 

Brown arms from earth 

Then lily-finger tips 

Unfold their chalked buds into 

Full bloom. 

The Pasadena (Calif.) Post. Nora L. Brown. 

"Verse Section of the Writers' Club of Pasadena." 


Flaw in strand of cable 

Let an anchor slip. 
Unsuspected leakage 

Sank a giant ship. 
Unremembered promise 

Lost a loyal friend. 
Little debt defaulted 

Brought a tragic end. 

The Pasadena (Calif.) Post. Albert W. Macy. 

"Verse Section of the Writers' Club of Pasadena." 



Weep not, O mothers, for sons who sleep 

Heedless of war in crimson dust. 

Tears for the dead cannot heal the wrong, 
Weep for the living, clear-eyed and strong, 

Whose lives may feed the war-gods lust; 
Weep and pray. 

Weep for your daughters who may not know 

Aught but a lover's goodbye-kiss. 

Glory of marching and crowds gone mad 
Give scant return when hearts grow sad 

For children's laughter, for homes they miss. 
Weep and pray. 

Rulers have failed but mercy lives 
In the heart of God for a world in tears. 
For sightless eyes, for songs unsung, 
For lives that are thwarted and warped and 


Weep, O Nations, redeem the years; 
Weep and pray. 

The Pasadena (Calif.) Post. Clara Miller Krag. 
* f Verse Section of the Writers' Club of Pasadena/' 


I am the Flood! 
I am power unleashed! 
I sweep down through 
The valleys and the cities; 
I crush and grind 
And tear the roots of things; 
I whirl and swirl 
And clutch the heart of things, 
Till all before me 
Bends and suffers, 
For I ... I am the Flood! 
I am destruction; 
I am the power of evil, 
A symbol of the greed of men. 
So is the universe atune 

To that which man has wrought 

Through his unwisdom 

And his hate. 

Back into the dust once more 

I grind the beauty of the world, 

To change the soul trend of 

Humanity. Change, change 

I bring an understanding, 

Till terror takes 

The place of hate, and strife 

Gives way to longing, 

When mankind sees that 

Things of earth are swept away, 

But not the things of Heaven. 

And while the cattle 

Of the lowlands perish 

The stars shine on 

Nor heed their going. 

I ... I am the Flood! 

I am destruction! 

I am power unleashed; 

A symbol of the greed of men! 

rhe Pasadena (Calif.) Star-News. Rena Sheffield. 


Long ago the wheel -like daisies, 

(Spokes of white and disks of gold) 

Lost their fragile rims forever, 
Stolen by a pixy bold. 

Quite romantic was his daring, 

Fortunes since through faith are told 

By the petal-spokes of daisies 
Tossed away from centered gold. 

When the wheel of pearl is rounded 
Chanting rhythmic words of old, 

"Loves me not? O, yes, he loves me!" 
Maidens read from daisies gold. 

The Pasadena (Calif.) Post. Kate K. Church. 

"Verse Section of the Writers' Club of Pasadena." 



A Roman matron's mother heart 

Once swelled with happiness and pride. 

Replying to her boasting friends, 

She called her young sons to her side. 

"These are my jewels/ 1 Through all time, 

Beneath all other hopes appear 
The longings in a woman's heart 

To give the world a soul so clear 

So far above the common clay, 

That men will throng to see his worth; 
And worship at his feet, and love 

The one who brought him to his birth. 

And what a pity then to find, 

With aspirations such as these, 
She has to quench that eager hope 

With Teddy-bears or Pekingese, 

Arden Murdoch Rockwood. 
The Pasadena (Calif.} Star-News. 


(To the men of the Keystone Division who grave their lives for peace in 
the World War) 

There is a Legion of the dead 

Who fought through Flanders mud; 
Who knew the horrors of a war, 

The shell's exploding thud; 
Who wonder if the price they paid 

Was paid, alas, in vain, 
As all the world in turmoil waits 

Another war again. 

There is a Legion of the dead 

We proudly looked upon. 
They trusted us and left with us 

New faith to carry on. 


The smoldering torch is growing dim, 

As though we did not care 
To keep the pledge of Flanders Fields 

With those who died out there. 

Charles A. Bancroft. 
The Philadelphia (Pa.) Bulletin. 


"Ho there, miner up in the sun I 

How goes the panning for gold today?" 

'Tine, my little earthly one, 

I'll move this cloud and show my array/* 

Anne Phillips Hattan. 
The Philadelphia (Pa.) Bulletin. 


A drink of wine that man has made 
Is not enough for me 
My thirst is for the wine of winds 
And the wide washing sea. 

Give me to drink of the golden sun 

Long mellowed in the sky, 

A taste of a drifting fleecy cloud 

Where wild geese fly. 

A nectar of a flowered hill, 

More sparkling than champagne, 

And fragrance of the thirsty earth 

In a fresh fall of rain. 

A goblet of the breath of trees 
And tang of pine in the wood, 
An old, old drink that has aged as long 
As the oldest tree has stood, 

Pen Edward Watson. 
The Portland (Ore.) Oregonian. 
"Oregonian Verse." 



An oven was her joy, she often said, 
Baking away her time with tart and bread, 
While spoons that never held a bit too much 
Combined the flour and spice with measured touch. 
And yet no recipe could match the sense 
Of something wistful, vital and intense 
That filled her mind; the spark thac gave her wings 
And flamed her thoughts to bright imaginings, 
In youth was how to feed a hungry man; 
The golden loaf that steamed upon the pan 
In fragrant rippling waves concealed a need 
Within a heart that love had never freed. 

In her domain, a kitchen dressed with charm, 

She mixed her dreams of might and brawny arm, 

Portioning time away with paste and bun 

Until one day she knew her youth was done; 

The paste and bun and coffee freshly brewed 

Became her love and like a lover wooed 

New friends and through her yeast and spice and 

She found the greatest romance life could know, 

The Portland (Ore.) Oregonian. Jean Rasey. 

ft Oregonian Verse." 


Ride the night wind 

Swing low on the frosty star 

Stir the green lake bamboo 

Press the mountains 

With the imprint of your shoe 

Drive wild horses 

Across the sea * . . 

But spare the worn nest 

And the old tree! 

Sara Van Alstyne Allen. 
The Portland (Ore.) Oregonian. 
"Oregonian Verse/ 3 



The wild ducks are dancing quadrilles today 
On the wave-lined floor of the marshy bay, 
As the wind violins and tree violas play. 
The wise old drake forgets his fears 
And quacks, "Come on, let's dance, my dears/' 
So they bob and dip and curtsy and glide 
To the currents and eddies of the rising tide. 
Allemand left and promenade all, 
With ears attuned to the leader's call. 
Down the center and cast off six, 
Flap your wings and show your tricks. 
Swing your partners with a merry splash, 
Grand right and left with a paddling dash. 
Oh! The wild ducks frolic with a happy reason, 
For this is the end of the hunting season. 

The Portland (Ore.) Oregonian. Ethel Dalby. 

"Oregonian Verse/' 


We knew a moment Audubon would love 
Four flickers drinking from our russet bowl, 
Four black-bibbed throats slow bending from above; 
Four scarlet caps by unison made whole. 

And once bobwhites were clustered there in snow, 
Tails pointed inward, puffing breasts outspread 
Against the storming "Surely none could know 
A fairy circle lovelier/' you said. 

Remember how the redstart took its bath 
Dipping and dancing, skipping then he went, 
Poising and darting thrilled with every path 
He swirled across the water, a candle sent 
To light the woodland edge and our content? 

Catherine Gate Cobtentz. 
The Portland (Ore,) Oregonian. 
4t Oregonian Verse," 



How tall the man whose homesite is a hill; 

Who daily measures his long stride to trails 

Which he has hewn by dint of brawn and skill 

Through logs jack-strawed in ancient fires and gales! 

How sinewy-strong! How lean and lithe of hips, 

This wrestler of huge boulders, lusty wind! 

The clean tang of him spicy as the chips 

Of pines he fells, where saplings must be thinned* 

How water-clear and how direct of eye! 

His mien, the vindicated pride of one 

Whose labor is baptized by rain and sun; 

Who shoulders clouds, he lives so close to sky. 

Each field logged off, he plants again to trees 

And harvests dreams of pears and plums from these, 

Ethel Romig Fuller. 
The Portland (Ore.) Oregonian. 


Icy cold with mountain snow 
Over cliff and crag you go, 
Praising loud the high peak's wonder 
With reverberating thunder; 
Crashing through the wild ravine 
Like a sword unsheathed and clean, 
Silver bright in constant motion, 
Onward moving toward the ocean. 

Slipping over ancient boulders 
With their round and mossy shoulders , . . 
On through shade of trees low bending, 
Green of leaf and river blending; 
Brushing fronds where fingers quiver, 
Stretch to stay you, shining river, 
But you pass with merry laughter, 
Lost to us who follow after. 

The Portland (Ore,) Oregonian. Thirza J, Martin. 


The rain falls, and the sun shines 

On the markers set in stiff, straight lines. 

Crimson, the leaves; silver, the snow; 

Flags wave, bugles blow. 

But the sleepers sleep on, and do not know. 

Moons rise and moons wane 
Oh, the sorrow! Ah, the pain 
In hearts that call above the slain, 
Did these, the young men, die in vain? 

Ethel Romig Fuller. 
The Portland (Ore.) Oregonian. 


Luck is a lady, whimsical, gay, 
Wooed by all men, yet ever astray 
Gypsy or goddess driving us mad, 
Tender, solicitous when she is had. 

Luck is a lady, lovely and vain. 
Some say a dryad lost in the rain. 
When we pursue her, she leads the mile; 
And there is lure in hef beautiful smile. 

Woe to the handful her kisses have blessed! 
She will deny them contentment and rest. 
Haunting men's dreaming, she leads the chase. 
Luck is a lady who laughs in your face. 

The Portland (Ore.) Oregonian. Helen Maring. 
"Oregonian Verse/' 


The antelopes sleep 
On the slopes of the sky, 
Where the star-grass waves, 
And the spaces cry. 


Antares, proud 
In her scarlet hair, 
Looks over Indus, 
Where the temples stare* 

And the fiery bees 

Of Lyra roam 

Through the breeding hives 

Of the honey-comb. 

The antelopes will 
At midnight slake 
Their ancient thirst 
At the windless lake. 

Where the sapphires blow 
Over timeless time, 
And the wheeling worlds 
Make a rhymeless rhyme. , . . 

But now they sleep, 
That golden herd, 
While round them swims 
The wordless Word. 

The Portland (Ore.) Oregonian. J. Carson Miller. 


I picked a bayberry bouquet 

Last year while days were spicy cold, 

Liquefied waxy beads of grey 

To fill a tapering candle-mold. 

Though, now, Spring's scarlet tulips burn, 
October's candle scents my room 
Last Autumn's golden rods return 
Through amber flame and field-perfume. 

Marie Dawson Robinson. 
The Providence (R. /.) Journal, 



The way he spoke of God 
Always made one think 
He knew God as intimately 
As he knew meat and drink. 

He described the wrath of God, 
The terrors of Judgment Day, 
And the bitter anguish of sinners 
Who keep the sinners' way. 

He spoke as though he viewed 
Heaven, from end to end; 
One felt that he knew God 
But never as a friend. 

The Redland District News. 

(Homestead, Fla.) Rebecca Helman. 

"Pirates Gold/' 


Totin' clothes- to de white folks gate 
When I oughtter be out diggin' bait! 
De catfish is bitin' dis time ob year 
But my ole 'oman don't seem to keer. 

Fse tired ob dis totin' and takin* her sass, 
Fse gwine fishin' and ketch me some bass, 
Dis ebning de white folks kin jest set and wait 
Cause shore as I'm born, I'm gwinna dig bait. 

Maybe Lucindi won't be so mad 
When I brings a string ob big fat shad 
An' basses an' catfish ready to fry 
A-fishin' I'll go I'll do it er die! 

The Redland District News. 

(Homestead, Fla.) Polly O'Quinn. 

"Pirates Gold/' 



La, you foolish man, 

Asking me to marry! 
Me, whose feet, turned one way, 

Want to go contrary; 

Silly ears that harken 

To every vagrant tune; 
And eyes that never would see dust 

For yearning on the moon. , 

You'd not want me for a wife 

I fooled you at the start 
Me with cloud banks in my eyes 

And a wish-bone for a heart! 

The Redland District News. 

(Homestead, Fla.) Hortense Roberta Roberts. 

"Pirate's GoW," 


I shall never know where the lilies go 

When their stalks are withered and covered with 


And I shall never see where hydrangeas bloom 
When the rains have come with sudden doom. 

But so long as these forms shall reappear 
I shall know that we too have nothing to fear. 
The spirit relives and form stays intact; 
Even fools realize that this is a fact. 

So, though I never know 
Where the lilies go, 
I shall never know fear 
While forms reappear. 

The Redland District News. 

(Homestead, Fla.) Lura Thomas McNair. 

"Pirate's Gold/' 



We have great need for small sounds 

(I wonder if God does too.) 

The beauty of a bird's note, 

Leaves stirring in the blue, 

A sea that sounds a ways off 

Like thunder in a dream, 

A child's voice, the wind's sigh, 

The chatter of a stream. 

We have great need for small sounds 

Soft-music, night-caressed; 

But I must hear my heart's cry 

That's muffled in my breast, 

The Redtand District News. 

(Homestead, Fla.) Helen Mating. 

''Pirate's Gold." 


There is a certain rite in being wise: 

In smoking cigarettes and drinking wine; 

She has the art of petting down quite fine 

And makes believe a night club satisfies. 

You could not possibly persuade this youth 

That moral virtue has a place today, 

She thinks the one important thing is play 

And does not hesitate at twisting truth, 

She has no time for friendly, homey things 

And scoffs at what the older folks think good; 

She never learned the peace of solitude 

Nor watched a golden butterfly spread wings. 

Her armor is as thick as country loarn; 

But in her secret heart she yearns for home! 

She yearns for home! But thinks if people knew 
She would be called old-fashioned and a prude; 
A certain pride is helped by being rude 
Until the right man comes, intent to woo. 
Love makes the game of make-believe seem tame 
And she would thrill to man's protecting arms; 


She learns to cook and brings put all her charms 

By proving life is more than just a game. 

She scorns a wedding with enormous cost: 

The money saved will furnish a small nest; 

Instinctively she knows just what is best 

And counts each home-kept moment, saved not lost. 

In retrospect her hardest case is worn. 

She eagerly awaits her coming son! 

She waits her son! But keeps her courage high 

To laugh at fear. Her larged body is strong 

And she is happy with a gift of song. 

She counts as beads, the weeks as they go by 

And numbers not the pain of sleepless nights, 

For any price is small to pay for one 

Who gives to her more brightness than the sun 

And power to lift her spirit to the heights. 

She gathers love in tiny, untried seams 

And studies baby books with tireless zest; 

She is determined he shall have the best 

And fills her waiting days with building dreams. 

This is the modern girl grandmothers scorn 

Who smiles through pain: at last her son is born! 

The Redland District News. 

(Homestead, Fla.) Leah Sherman. 

"Pirates Gold." 


There's something soft about the dark 

And comfortable to one who lives all day 

With jangled nerves 

And finds no time to pray. 

One longs for night 

And calm repose, 

And gentle softness of the dark, 

The Redland District News. 

(Homestead, Fta.) Lily Lawrence Bow. 

"Pirate's Gold." 



There are so many days we would forget. 
We do not want them in our memory, 
Turning a knife within our hearts, nor yet 
Weaving a somber mental tapestry. 

Sad days, when over a white cot our eyes 
Met in anxiety too deep for tears, 
And though the years our pain must minimize, 
We'll wear those scars, deep hidden, through the 

Fear laid his icy fingers on our hearts 

And held them there till our warm blood ran cold. 

Then, as the specter of our fears departs, 

Come dreary days that pass by sable-stoled. 

But sad days have brought courage, and our hearts 
Are braver for their bitter medicine, 
Which to our moral fiber strength imparts 
And leaves us stronger for its discipline. 

And as sad days brought courage, patience came 
From those that had passed by with leaden feet. 
Forget sad days, if need be. Keep their gain, 
For bitter ever mingles with the sweet. 

The Rutland (Vt.) Herald. Katharine Schall Smith. 


Of Vanishing Oaks and Crumbling Adobes 

The West Wind sings elegies 
Of vanishing oak trees, 
Of old Spanish days 
Filled with color and grace, 
Of courage and duty, 
Of homage to beauty 
That once in men's hearts 
Had a definite place. 


Like old fingers fumbling, 
Adobe walls crumbling, 
Are touching as tears 
On a dear, withered face; 
Of these, and the dead years 
When wild, long-horned red steers 
Milled under these branches, 
There's hardly a trace! 

So West Wind sings elegies, 

Of dainty mantillas, 

Of moss hung in patterns 

Like hand woven lace. 

"Oh, help them!" the wind sings, 

"Proud queens, and old, gray kings, 

Whom we should protect 

As a vanishing race." 

The San Francisco (Calif.) Examiner. Joy O'Hara. 


Shansi Province, far away, 

Once you were strange, unknown, 
A colored portion on a page, 

Now you are flesh and bone. 

Shansi Province, you have faced 
War with its ghastly yield, 

Death that hurtles from the sky, 
And death that stalks the field. 

Shansi Province, you have met 
Famine and drought and flood, 

But these are kinder kinder far 
Than foes that seek your blood. 

Shansi Province, we have known 
Each dark defeat, each victory, 

Your pain, your courage and despair 
Are flashed across the sea. 


Shansi Province, time shall come 

When cruel war must cease, 
Oh! You are nearer than we knew, 

And our hearts yearn for peace. 

Nell Griffith Wilson. 
The San Francisco (Calif.) Examiner. 


The ocean's deep roar is constant tonight, 
And the whistling buoy's moan is lost on the shore, 
It is shaking the cliffs and disturbing great rocks, 
Where birds seek shelter from the furious storm's 

Ever again and again the waves' ceaseless pounding 
Fills the air with its powerful might, 
Gates are rising and sea horses are riding 
High and stately on the waves tonight. 

There's beauty in this ocean's wildest moods, 
Lashing and thrashing the coast incessantly, 
Churning the water into suds, in every inlet and cave, 
It flies and whirls, and drifts away, snowflakes of the 

The San Jose (Calif.) Mercury. Cora Lee Fairchild. 


Last night 

When I left your world 

It was just as I meant it to be . . . 

Quietly . . . unostentatiously. 

I had always hope to slip away 

In the stillness, 

So as to disturb no one. 

Let me hear no loud lamenting , , . 

See no tears . . . hear no regrets . , , just forget. 


Tuberoses have always made me ill. 

So bring me flowers . . . 

But let them be red. 

Bring all this place will hold. 

Let no one whet their idle curiosity 
By having one last look. 
You see I have no defense . . . 
I cannot lock my door. 

For me this shall be a great adventure. 

Now I will know the wherefore and the why. 

From the tree of Knowledge 

I will pluck many things 

That have been denied me. 

Such as knowing life in all its fullness. 

Living dangerously, without censure . . . 

And I will be able 

To dance among the stars. 

The Santa Ana (Calif.) Register. M ina Shafer. 

"Modern Poets/' 


We who have looked beneath the mask of courage 
And found a loved one's face grown grey with dread, 
Must pledge our faith again unto the living, 
Lest they in turn be numbered with the dead. 

What matters all our talk of might and glory, 
Of conquered lands that yield the promised gain, 
When lives are crippled, blinded, torn asunder, 
And minds are warped beneath the weight of pain? 

And who shall honor countless scraps of paper, 
Though nations meet and sign some clever phrase, 
If every wind must bear the sound of weeping, 
And brooding shadows darken all our days? 


Our eyes have seen the waste and desolation, 
Our hands prepared the ghastly sacrifice! 
Of what avail is all our garnered wisdom 
If someday youth again must pay the price? 

Eugenia T. Finn. 
The Santa Rosa (Calif.} Press-Democrat. 


When she, who knew the forest ways by heart, 
Who breathed her life from evergreens, would start 
To see him looking westward, with an ear 
Straining to pick up sounds she could not hear, 
She's rush to woo him with her arms and lips, 
But he was trothed to water ways, and ships. 

Thinking to hold him from the rival seas, 
She lavishly displayed her lakes and trees 
Till spring climbed up the mountainside, and then 
He lightly kissed her and went down again; 
While she, with empty arms and head bent low, 
Stood on a rain-drenched hill and watched him go, 
Not knowing that a forest's windy roar 
Could sound like tides upon a rocky shore. 

The Salt Lake Tribune. 

(Salt Lake City, Utah.) Maude Blixt Trone. 


Rolling on tawny prairies, 

Tumbleweeds tussle and toss r 
Toiling, trying to travel 

Triumphant, on plains they cross. 

They tarry, but winds thrash them onward. 

In their twisting turmoil they find 
Only transient abode a brief resting place. 

True peace they have left behind. 


Youth's plans for life's tour were definite, sure. 

The trip would be pleasing, secure. 
But the dream turrets trembled, tumbled, till now 

Only steadying hopes endure. 

The Salt Lake Tribune. 

(Salt Lake City. Utah.) Kate H. Robinson. 


No clank of sabre, trumpet note, 

Or sound of marching men 

Proclaims the guards-of-time exchange. 

These cosmic walls again 

Sense hazy daylight vanishing 

Beyond the sun's last ray 

While tall night hours assume the watch, 

Each taciturn and gray. 

The Seattle (Wash.) Star. Grace Stillman M inch, 


Below a frozen sheet of light 

There lies the lake. Its mask of white 

Stares like a woman's face, 

Whose powdered surface would conceal 

The restlessness of fettered zeal 

Her outer charms embrace. 

The Shaker Heights Journal 

(Cleveland, Ohio.) Miriam Dean Blackburn. 

"Pen Points" 


Now with Mars in belligerent reign, 
I must move all my castles from Spain. 
I shall set them down safely in Greece 
Where, at present, there's nation-wide peace. 

The Shaker Heights Journal, 

(Cleveland ', Ohio.) Clara McClean. 

"Pen Points/' 



Thongs of sympathy 

So bind my brother's life to mine, 

That when his days, devoid of freedom, 

Go leaden- weighted in grey file 

Behind steel bars of justice, 

I, too, go prisoner along with him. 

When hunger wracks his body, 
And I hear his weakened cry for food, 
My bread becomes a stone . . . 
My drink a poisoned draught. 

A haunting fear possesses me, 

For when I see him thinly clad and cold, 

Though my own raiment now suffices, 

I know before the day is done, 

I shall go naked in the wind, 

And shiver with my brother 

In the gale. 

The Spanish Democracy, 

(Manila, P. /.) Helen Miller Lehman. 


I wrote a song one sunny day, 
One windy day in June 
I wrote a song as light as dream, 
And bright as a new moon. 

I made it gay with clover, 
Told things the robins tell, 
Wove in a thread of sunshine 
I wrote my song too well 

For just as I was finished 
The June wind whisked the thing 
Away from me, to make a new 
Hair ribbon for the Spring. 

Betty Lee Middlebrook. 
The Springfield (Mo.) News. 
"Hillbilly Heartbeats/' 



I count among the fairest things of earth 
A friend whose pure affinity of soul 
One early craves for company as roll 
The years, faster and more complex the girth 
Of life Life that is promising at birth, 
That ends a pilgrimage, as friends well know, 
Wherein what matters most is aim. Altho 
One fail, it cannot damn the seeker's worth . . . 

A friend stands by with one to win or lose 

Such is the blessed manifestation 

Of friendship's spirit anointing life's way; 

And privileged is he who can array, 

Thru its rare and enduring gift to use, 

A life-time friend beside him when all's done. 

The Staples (Minn.) World. Fay Willoughby. 


A grandfather sat in a rustic chair, 

Two pattering feet came by. 
"Ho-ho!" said the old man. "Who comes there?" 

And a child's voice answered, "I," 

"And who am I?" the elder said; 

Tell me your mission, I pray/' 
Then velvet fingers kissed his head 

While he dreamed of a better day, 
* * * * 

"I am a dream on the World's highway. 

Though human and incomplete. 
Kings marvel at my power to sway; 

Lords tremble at my feet. 

"From dawn of day to the eventide, 

Through thick and grinding din, 
I marshall hosts where seas divide 

And tides come rushing in. 


"I take up a work you leave undone. 

With a will that is quick and strong 
I finish the task your sires begun 

With a glad victorious song!" 
* * * * 

The dream? A sequel of Now and Then; 

Democracy in its prime, 
On the long, long trail while the sons of men 

Press on with the flight of time. 

The St. Cloud (Minn.) Times. George D. Craig. 
"Worthwhile Verse." 


Thanksgiving Day is rich in lore. 

Its proclamation stirs anew 

With gracious words of thanks and praise 

For bounteous gifts, and dreams come true* 

Heroic men, they were who dreamed 
And worked, to give this nation birth 
That faith, goodwill and freedom 
Should not perish from the earth. 

A flag, as symbol of these aims 

Was born in great travail 

Red, White, and Blue combined to form 

The banner we now hail. 

Both Washington and Lincoln, 
In Thanksgiving Proclamation 
Thanked God for aid, establishing 
Our struggling little nation. 

Thus, God our nation Thanksgiving 
Together are enframed; 
Let flags fly on this holiday 
That such may be proclaimed! 

The St. Cloud (Minn.) Times. Norma Dod&on. 
''Worthwhile Verse" 



Just having a Friend is a wonderful thing, 
A Friend who will understand 
Will tune to music each quivering heart string 
With the touch of an unseen hand. 

Just being a Friend is a beautiful thing, 
To know someone trusts in you 
Will pour love's balm on hearts that sting 
From a heart warm, tender, true. 

Just "Being Friends" is a sacred thing, 
How sweet is this thought today 
He calls us His Friends, our Heavenly King, 
As He walks by our side all the way. 

The St. Cloud (Minn.) Times. Jessie Bell Thabes. 
"Worthwhile Verse." 


I found Him in the simple things 
And in the song a mother sings; 
I found Him in a precious thought 
And in kind deeds some soul has wrought, 

I found Him in the flower bloom 
Upon the sill within my room, 
And in the warbling of some bird, 
And in some stranger's tender word! 

I found Him when no others could 
In tiny things both pure and good; 
And now I am quite satisfied 
To find Christ near on every side! 

The St. Cloud (Minn.) Times. Roy Eddy. 

"Worthwhile Verse." 



Let the flag wave. The winds of the world 
Will swing it out free wherever unfurled. 

No need to flaunt it in the face of a foe, 

Or shame it in streets where sword-rattlers go. 

Keep it a symbol of Freedom's high creed: 
The friendship of nations Earth's greatest need. 

Exalt it in peace to the stars in the blue; 
And fear not for it when war-clouds brew. 

Call it heaven's gift when brave men pray, 

It will then float in honor on Thanksgiving Day. 

The St. Cloud (Minn.) Times. W. C A. Walter. 
"Worthwhile Verse." 


I had forgotten the child that used to be, 
Who loved to dress up in Granny's feather ruff, 
Her dolman, earrings, making boldly free 
With ruffled petticoat and astrakan muff 
I had forgotten until I saw the tree, 
The littlest maple, scarcely two feet tall, 
Absurdly wearing her Granny's Paisley shawl! 

The St. Cloud (Minn.) Times. Nell Mabey. 

"Worthwhile Verse." 


Only yesterday I said, 

"I should walk down to visit her 

She's been so long a-bed." 

But other tasks seemed more 

Important, and I thought 

I'll stop another time, and passed her door. 


Today I filled my arms with purple lilac bloom, 

And went to sit with her a while 

To find her lying in the candle lighted gloom. 

Frances Match Davy. 
The St. Cloud (Minn.) Times. 
''Worthwhile Verse/' 


A world in darkness save for generous stars, 
Such stars as heard of old the voice supreme 
High above chaos and the mortal dream; 

High above greed, and the treachery that scars 

Its own heart deepest. Even the sword of Mars 
Hears and has heard that voice, and in the gleam 
And maddening clouds of death the master theme 

Rises to break, like suns, life's sullen bars. 

Beatific night night wreathed and love-caressed, 
Under your bright winged potencies, I feel 

The warm embrace of throngs unseen, and lest 
They vanish with the candles I appeal 

To those eternal forces Christ has blessed 
Fond ministries no darkness may conceal. 

The St. Paul (Minn.) Pioneer Press. Robert Cary. 


O monster, horrible and grim 

By our own heedless hands created! 

Eyes shooting fire, flash on flash 

From gleaming sockets, barrels of guns. 

With deadly, stifling breath of poisonous gases 

And bony fingers reaching out to clutch 

All human forms, not scattered long ere this, 

In bleeding fragments over a land once fair 

But now a smoking, treeless desolation, 

Where shell-holes, horrid mouths without a tongue 

Strive vainly to repeat their piteous tale. 

The St. Paul (Minn. ) Pioneer Press. Agnes B. Davis. 

INVENTORY 1918-1938 

There's little you have missed, from each fetid sty 

Where men collect, comes the old porcine sound. 

Still do the gentle poor from hunger die; 

Still they complain where luxuries abound 

He with a dream is rich, the rich are poor, 

Lust prospers, rape is rife, bewildered youth 

Insensible to Virtue, lose the spoor 

Of their forefathers still the sidereal truth 

Is hidden by the phosphorescent life 

Which, will-o'-the-wisp-like, leads mankind astray. 

Still Greed goes masked as "love-of-country." Why 

Men still go forth their fellowman to slay 

As in the days of Cyclops, not one knows. 

There's little, save the lilac trees in Spring, 

There's little you have missed, except the rose, 

Except the sweep of the purple martin's wing. 

The Stratford (Iowa) Courier. Beryl V. Thompson. 


I wear my laughter as a cloak 

To shut the world away; 
A shimmering cloak of yellow gold 

To hide the sombre gray. 

Some kindly hand with good intent 

Might pull the cloak aside, 
And so I gaily pirouette 

And spin my laughter wide 

I could not bear to have you know 
That I am old and hollow . . 

So, a bright and shining cloak of mirth 
Marshfire for you to follow. 

Josephine Ingram. 

The Tacoma (Wash.) News-Tribune. 
"Washington Verse." 



Earth, I creep back to you 
Beaten and stripped, 
Thrown aside wounded, 
Broken . . . wing-clipped 
Lean as a wolf, 
Bleak and alone 
As a sea-bitten spar, 
As a picked bone. 
To all living things 
You are the mother! 
Now I return to you 
From the world-smother. 
I come to you hungry 
I come to you cold . . . 
It does not move you 
Who are wise, who are old. 
Three things I bring you, 
One seed of grain, 
My cupped hands, 
And my soul's pain 
Your deep passion 
I shall surprise 
When I am old, 
When I am wise. 

Marietta Conway Kennard. 
The Tacoma (Wash.) News-Tribune, 
"Washington Verse/' 


Hear the thrumming and the drumming of an eerie 

savage beat, 

And the strumming of a primitive guitar? 
Oh, the movement in the moonlight of possessed and 

wary feet 
Makes me shiver where the purple orchids are. 

Eleanor Eastwood Downing. 
The Tacoma (Wash.) News-Tribune. 
"Washington Verse." 



I hear your whine upon the breeze 
That roves at night from overseas 
And feel your nose against my hand 
To comfort me in No-Man's Land. 
I see you, wraith-like, in the fog 
On trackless march ... a battle-dog! 

No need to tell you, "Follow through/' 

Courageous soldier such as you . . . 

You stayed with me in mud and shell 

Caring not if Heaven or Hell 

Was being dealt in bursting flare 

So long as my hand touched your hair. 

Tonight your foot-steps trailed me home 

As if you knew I was alone 

And needed you as in the past, 

Beside me Buddies to the last! 

Your deathless spirit pulled me through 

And I am here instead of you 

Ghost-dog, why do you haunt me so 
When it has been so long ago? 

C. Bargess Strong. 

The Tacoma (Wash.) News-Tribune. 
"Washington Verse." 


What lurid circlings of noise 

Burn across the face of dawning! 

How dark the smoke upon the blotted sun! 

How black the soot of sorrow 

Fallen on the land! 

Rouse out! O dull and wondering eyes! 

Meet smoke with smoke; 

Greet the crimson thrust of flame 

With sodden ash. 


Search out the cock 

Whose morning voice sticks in his throat; 

He shall not grease aggression's pot. 

Drive out the ox; 

Feed the straw to licking tongues of fire; 

Stamp the pale grass into the soil; 

Let barren stinking mire of long fields 

Be quicklime on the feet of avarice. 

Let the smoldering lava of destruction 

Cover the hearthstone 

To burn the foraging hand of lust. 

Shoulder the babe . . . 

Turn hopeless feet into the old, old way 

Of hunger, and look not back 

Upon the naked land. 

Pull the ash-flaked garment closer 

Against the fingered wind. 

But it is not wind 

That chills the blood 

And beats sword-sharp against the heart . . . 

No, it is not wind. 

Queena Davidson Miller. 
The Tacoma (Wash.} News-Tribune. 
"Washington Verse/' 


Dread angels of death and of doom they came 
Where night and the breath of fear lay dank 
On the darkened streets. We sobbed the Name 
In the futile hush, and warm life shrank . , . 

Is war for mothers and babes? Have we, 
Then, taken the sword that red death came 
To reap with a sword . . . that there should be 
In the huddled yard a geyser of flame . . . 

Myron McWhinney. 
The Tacoma (Wash.) News-Tribune. 
"Washington Verse." 



Who says that flowers do not sing? 

A very madrigal of spring 

Bursts like some snow-born Pentecost 

From startled spruce-buds, green in frost. 

The small spice pinks are sweet and quaint 

With songs of yesterday; and faint 

As remembered love in after years 

The lilt of hawthorn heard with tears. 

With caressing melody the rose 

Can soothe; and quietly there flows 

To him a deep and peaceful calm 

Who hears white lilies chant their psalm, 

Ethelyn Miller Hartwich. 
The Tacoma (Wash.} News-Tribune. 
"Washington Verse/' 


Far against the blue expanse, 

Like imagined circumstance, 

Row on row, the Bombers range, 

Bend the pattern, shift and change; 

Power such as planets know 

Keeps them in that ordered row. 

Then the roaring, then the drumming 

Prophecy of what is coming. 
Beauty held there by a breath, 
Yet I feel them dropping death! 

Genneva Dickey Watson. 
The Tacoma (Wash.) News-Tribune. 
"Washington Verse." 


Jefferson Crowley, a young man still, 
Built his house on a high green hill, 
And fourscore slaves obeyed his will. 
Hedge and wall and rail by hand 


Marked the boundary of Crowley land, 
But that was very long ago, 
A hundred Aprils have melted snow; 
Jeff's great-granddaughter bows her head 
And stands in a pauper-line for bread. 

Laura Turnidge Stevens. 
The Tacoma (Wash.) News-Tribune. 
"Washington Verse." 


You will never hurt me 
Again . . . 

Empty as an old tomb 
Is my heart, and dead 
Within it as dry bones 
Are memories of your love 
And words you whispered 
In the scented stillness 
Of winter nights. 

Beat upon me with hammers! 

Pierce my numbed flesh 

With all the spears and arrows 

Your scorn can mold and sharpen! 

You will wring from me 

No cry of pain, no tears, 

No plea to stay your hand. 

If it be that one small ember 

Should stir to flame 

Within the cold and silent tomb 

Which is my heart, 

Its name is not Remorse, 

But Pity . . . 

The Tampa (F/a.) Tribune. Alma Johnson. 

"The Gulf Gleam " 



The little red gods of War and Hate 
Look down on the earth once more, 
Laughing and shrieking in savage glee 
To the bomb and cannon roar. 

* 'Peace be on earth and good will to men" 
An old but forgotten thought, 
For little red gods are driving now 
The sheep to the slaughter-lot. 

Time seems near for the little red gods 
To rule on the earth once more, 
Dancing and singing in company 
To the blasting roar of war. 

The Tampa (Fla.) Tribune. Charles E. Crozier. 
"The Gulf Gleam." 


I cannot give thee gold, my friend, 

When I have none to give. 
I have no gems nor lands to share 

Nor house where you could live; 
The things I have to offer thee 

Like water in a sieve 
Are evanescent rainbows 

Beauty fugitive. 

I cannot give thee gold, my friend, 

For I have none to give. 
But after all, gold cannot buy 

A deep desire to live: 
The thrill of life is more to me 

Than gems or lands to own 
I'd give thee joy and love and peace 

Rather than a throne. 

The Tampa (Fla.) Tribune. Margaret Hamlett. 
"The Gulf Gleam/' 



Courage! how we rise to its appeal 

As we see it flame in an intrepid breast, 

Flinging itself with passion in a quest 

Forlorn (or so it seems to us who feel 

With creeping pulse to the look, the word, the deed 

Against evil in our midst.) However, the salute 

To that we lack of man's first attribute 

Must leave the poorest spirit more bravely keyed. 

For it's a cleansing ferment in ^the heart, 

This yeasting-up to their fortitude who fight; 

Who open with the pen's scalpel poisonous growth 

Within the body-politic to the light ; 

Who against bribe and threat and the heavy sloth 

Of the dead past maintain their resolute part, 

The Tampa (Fla.) Tribune. D. Sanial Gill 

"The Gulf Gleam/' 


In strength and quietness. These have the tone 

Of organ music when white stars are sown 

Across blue fields of sky; tranquillity 

Of early dawn beneath a flowering tree. 

They have the beauty of red roses grown 

Beside a wall. A trumpet echo blown 

From some far distant valley where alone 

We faced defeat and won the victory 

In strength and quietness. 

If what I build down through the years, my own 

High citadel of dreams; bulwarks of stone 

To hold ideals beyond reach of the sea 

That breaks and surges at my feet should be 

Less lovely than I planned, let it atone 

In strength and quietness. 

The Tampa (Fla.) Tribune. Virginia Eaton. 

"The Gulf Gleam" 



Let the tumult and the shouting cease: 

Our lands have been given over, that no blood be 


There will be no dead 
We have purchased peace. 

Now let there be no further fear of the fighting and 

Let the men go back to the fields, and the cannon 


Though our lips taste dust, 

There will be no sound in the lands of women cry- 

Let the shouting cease, let the tumult die away; 
Go back to your daily tasks, there is naught to fear 
Though the price of peace is dear, 
We will pray. 

The Tampa (F/a.) Tribune. Eva Byron. 

"The Gulf Gleam:' 


She could not weep when her husband died 

For she learned the meaning of crucified 

But she sat dead calm in his regular chair 

And felt his arms around her there. 

She held his watch and his ring in her hand 

And prayed for the power to understand 

The meaning of death why one so young 

Had to leave with his melody but half sung. 

Her neighbors and friends said to go away 

That time would soften the lump of clay 

That she called her heart that the pain would cease 

And she would find laughter and love and peace; 

But she sat in his chair and remembered he 

Knew nothing at all of a word called "flee/' 

That laughter and love and peace some day 

Might come, but not if she ran away. 


So she loved his chair and his watch and his ring, 
His home, his children and everything ^ 
They had shared together, and every night 
She knelt and prayed to be guided right. 
She'd smile in the dark and blow him a kiss, 
And say, "Dearest dear, would you have me like 


So she carried on and found new pride 
In the things he had loved because he died, 

The Tampa (Fla.) Tribune. Bernice Logan. 

"The Gulf Gleam" 


Whatnot shelves in the corners hold 
Trinkets of ivory, glass and gold; 
And Life, Ah! Life is a whatnot shelf 
Displaying fragments of one's own self. 

The Tampa (Fla.) Tribune. Ruby Pearl Patterson. 
"The Gulf Gleam." 


Why should I make the world believe I do not care? 
It is a thankless task. 

My troubles mount like all the rest, 
Who cry theirs out on someone's breast; 
I want to shout about my woe, 
And let them see the tears that flow. 

I want to talk about the bills unpaid, 
And tell the plans I have mislaid; 
The next unfortunate who comes my way, 
Will have to listen to my doleful lay, 

Here comes one! I'll tell the story of my fate, 
As long as I can make them wait; 
They start their tale of woe right at the door, 
I listen and consider them a bore; 


Then when they ask me for my share, 
I don a smiling mask. 

The Tampa (Fla.) Tribune. Grace H. Thomas. 
"The Gulf Gleam: 9 


The little Seminole mother leans 
To peer at a tiny, swarthy face, 
Outlined with strength and beauty rare, 
The lasting pride of a worthy race. 

Hinting of days which have gone before, 
Of a well-marked trail, and an open plain, 
Of a signal fire upon a hill, 
Of a comrade sun, and a friendly rain. 

Of a camp at dusk, by a low-hung moon, 
And a bird's shrill cry through the lonely night, 
While songs of the hunter, rich with spoils, 
Presaged the first, uncertain light. 

The Indian mother smiles, and rests 
Her hand on the hair which darkens round 
Eyes as bright as the braves', long-closed, 
Which searched for a happy hunting ground. 

The Tampa (Fla.) Tribune. Josephine Brees. 

"The Gulf Gleam/' 


How did you know that she had gone from me? 
You wrote as though I had communed with you. 
You took the words from out my heart you see, 
For I had dreamed . . . and in my dreaming too, 
Had sensed her presence here within this room. 
Ah well, how futile to attempt to stay 
The hand that weaves the woof, some gold . , . some 


You say you also knew a love that's flown. 
Was death your rival? Better thus than life. 


It seems that we a mutual loss have known 
That bows the spirit ... or engenders strife. 
. . . How did you know, please tell me, by the way, 
She left me for another yesterday? 

The Washington (Iowa) Journal. Dorothy Keene. 


Quite drunk with the wine from the vessel of youth 

They come to the threshold of life 
And gaze on a world that is torn by the greed 

Of war lords whose music is strife. 

Then, startled, they turn to the warm arms of love, 

Though not to beget, for escape 
From anguish and death is the nectar they sip, 

They have no desire to reshape 

The image of one, who through love, may face Hell, 

As they, who have entered the gate. 
So reckless and beautiful, they compromise 

Sad children, refusing to hate. 

The Washington (D. C.) Post. Ina Draper DeFoe. 
"Contributed Verse." 


He is ten years old. At his mother's knee 
He learned his devotion and how to pray. 
He likewise karned of pirates on the sea, 
Of hold-up men and thieves who rob and slay, 
Of kings and queens, of warriors bold and brave 
Of Bible heroes; heaven's mighty rod 
The right to torture foes, to kill a slave, 
The endless hatred credited to God. 

He got his facts on love from movie drool 
The underhanded sex-depraving rot. 
He learned that gold made up the golden rule; 
That honor follows those who spoil and plot. 


He dreams of how to take one for a "ride" 
And thinks the racketeer is truly brave. 
His toys are guns; his parents watch with pride 
Assured that prayer will counteract and save. 

The West Los Angeles (Calif.) Independent. 

Jack Greenberg. 

ft Bright Mosaic/' 


The trees 

That blow at night 

Like sullen, blackened ghosts 

Are they in mourning, too, for their 

Lost youth? 

Edythe Hope Genee. 

fhe West Los Angeles (Calif.) Independent. 

''Bright Mosaic." 


My palms 

Stand straight and proud 
With heads held high, to see 
The lonely traveler on the road 
And welcome him. 

Ann Foster Ellis. 

The West Los Angeles (Calif.) Independent. 
"Bright Mosaic/' 


Against the moon-rayed shore the breakers curled 
In foamy silver sound, and overhead 
The southern constellations blazed and purled 
Their argent symphony, while shadows fled. 
The song of night and all its ancient wonder 
Was held within this nocturne of the sea 
With minor chords to tear the heart asunder. 

Etta Josephean Murfey. 

The West Los Angeles (Calif.) Independent. 
"Bright Mosaic/' 



Soft-falling rain beats on my window pane 
As though caressing fingers lingered there. 
The gentle sigh of wind brings back again 
Old memories of rain-drenched summer air, 
When in the years, long gone and far away 
You came one night and sat before my fire. 
We watched the dancing flames in glad array, 
Like fairies in the dance of Heart's Desire. 

You whispered words of love and happiness, 

We planned a home, a garden and a car; 

You held me in your arms and turned to press 

A kiss upon my lips, but now afar 

You wander in the outer spirit-land: 

I thought I felt your kiss upon my hand. 

Olive Scoff Stainsby. 

The West Los Angeles (Calif.) Independent. 
"Bright Mosaic/' 


Every tree to heaven aspiring 
Points its tender tips for power, 
Sensitive to all inspiring 
Currents of the passing hour. 

Roots spread outward, down around 
Tender tips in search of power, 
Feeling through the living ground 
For the moisture of the shower. 
So may we keep fresh and tender 
Roots and spires of searching thought, 
Taking power from the Sender 
Through the beauty He has wrought. 

Sam Bryan. 

The Wisconsin State (Madison, Wis.) Journal 
"The Rambler/' 



Claudia M, Adams, Earthbottnd 70 

Walter R. Adams, Laborer. . 35 

Marion H. Addington, Self -Conscious, 114 

Martha Bolton Agler, For Eyes That Can See...- 64 

Dana Kneeland Akers, My Menace 41 

Sara Van Alstyne Allen, Storm 142 

Zoda Anderson, It Is Welt 127 

Frank Ankenbrand, Jr., All My Life and Dreams 31 

Kate Rennie Archer, Voice of a Boy 1 5 

Gladys Naomi Arnold, Youth Speaks 102 

Lottye Humphrey ville Athey, Wind Chimes 41 

Charles A. Bancroft, Armi&tice Day 140 

Helen Darby Berning, Lost 58 

Susie M. Best, Plenty Doing 56 

Miriam Dean Blackburn, Camouflage 156 

Cora Blakesley, Roads _. 125 

Lily Lawrence Bow, Tender Night 150 

Amy Bower, Sky Laundry 46 

Hazel McGee Bowman, Interval 94 

Emma Bradfield, Parting 18 

Magda Brandon, Close to Infinity 77 

Eve Brazier, / Like Old Men 120 

Josephine Brees, A Camp at Dusk 173 

Cecil Brown, The Old Home Town 128 

Nora L. Brown, Amaryllis 137 

Margaret E. Bruner, Stubble 53 

For Douglas Corrigan 93 

Paulina Z. Brunt, Guarded Gates 47 

Sam Bryan, Awareness . 176 

Norma Jean Bunting, Gauntlet to An Aggressor 59 

Ina L. Burnell, Pageant of Spring.... 37 

Flora Cameron Burr, / Heard No Voice in Old 
Jerusalem .. 14 

Cadence of Memory 87 

Dorothy Randolph Byard, Ascent fo Winter 54 

Eva Byron, Czechoslovakia Speaks.-.. 171 

Susan C. Cameron, The Jewelled Sea ., , 136 

Lucile Iredale Carleson, Our Soldier Dead 23 


Ellen M. Carroll, In Humility 91 

Robert Gary, Christ the Enduring 162 

Pauline S. Chad well Lonely Pursuit 26 

Jessie Chandler, Her Happiest Easter ....104 

Pearl Wallace Chappell, Little Rains 75 

Edith Cherrington, Shipwrecked 135 

Ralph Cheyney, A Doubting Thomas to a 

Mocking Bird 1 2 

Rosalie Childs, Happiness A Mystery 118 

Kate K. Church, Fortune Tellers ..... 139 

Helena Claiborne, The Supreme Sacrifice 1 5 

Edwin Coulson Clark, Cinquains 20 

Marianne Clarke, America for Me 17 

Mildred W. Clark, And Rumors of Wars 46 

To the Harness Horse _115 

Clara A. Clausen, To Those of Twenty Years 

Ago 9 8 

E. H. Clements, Whetstone 27 

Monica Shipp Cline, Indifference 20 

Catherine Gate Coblentz, Birdbath -Quatrains ...143 

Stanton A. Coblentz, Victory Dance 115 

Bess Bevier Codde, Salute 124 

Katherine Hunter Coe, Universal Plea 61 

Isabel Fiske Conant, Cape Cod Cottage 24 

M. Sdiaffer Connelly, Neglected Field 84 

Coleena Cooper, Let Me Not Hush His Song 44 

Leonard Cooper, Peace 125 

Annette Patton Cornell, Indictment of Dreamers 57 

Viola Cornet t, Pride 46 

George D. Craig, Democracy 159 

Charles E. Crozier, Dance of the Little 

Red Gods . 1 69 

E. D. C., The Seeing Eye 29 

Ethel Dalby, The Frolic 143 

Robert L. Dark, Jr., Broken Lute. 31 

Agnes B. Davis, Frankenstein 162 

Fletcher Davis, Service 84 

Frances March Davy, Remorse. 161 

Gladys Verville Eteane, The Ununrn Scarlet 72 

Ina Draper DeFoe, Children of the Darkness 174 


Theressa M. DeFossett, Earth Travellers 127 

Florence Denham, Ignorance _ 70 

Emclda Deshaies, Mrs, Franklin D. Roosevelt 132 

Mary Ferrell Dickinson, Pity Him 135 

Margarette Ball Dickson, Like Moonlight On a 

Maple Tree __ 19 

Norma Dodson, Triumvirate 159 

Ralph J. Donahue, Cedar Blossom 96 

Eleanor Eastwood Downing, Dance of the 

Igorrotes . 164 

Minnie Roberts Dreesen, 'Bread Upon the 

Waters". 75 

Cyrus P. Dryden, Hunger 136 

Ethel Morgan Dunham, A Spring Carpet in the 

North _ 1 8 

Margaret Durant, Bright Token 22 

Josephine Bather, Snow flakes Fatting 1 1 1 

Virginia Eaton, Words of Beauty 170 

Richard Eberhart, The Humanist 1 15 

Roy Eddy, / Found Him.,. 160 

James Egbert, My Gift to You 86 

Will Henry Eldridge, Mood.. , 76 

Blanche Elliott, Poetry^. 70 

Ann Foster Ellis, Hospitality 175 

Myra P. Ellis, The Empty House 30 

Cora Lee Fairchild, Ocean Snowf lakes 153 

Jessie Famham, Substitution 58 

Eugenia T. Finn, We Who Have Seen 154 

Clark B. Firestone, Wine, Women and Song 61 

Margo Fischer, Speed 107 

Nan Fitz-Patrick, How Long, White Death? 90 

C Greenlaw Flint, Wheat Harvest 53 

C. L Ford, Corrigan's Experience And Mine 119 

Alia M. Foster, Gipsying..... 137 

Ethel Romig Fuller, Homesteader - 144 

Armistice Day 145 

Louise Cain Gardner, Love at Thirty 56 

Natalie Gardner, Starlight On the Water 110 

Edith Hope Genee, Trees 175 


Clifford Gessler, Pillars of Society 121 

Sara Roberta Getty, To Lindbergh . 73 

Una Morce Gibson, Christ Looks On War 1 1 

D. Sanial Gill, Courage 170 

Yetza Gillespie, Spendthrift Song 94 

W. A. Godward, Ingrcdience _. 118 

Joseph R. Godwin, Wings in Repose 120 

Eris Goff, Sonnet to a Bird .102 

Mary Schanck Golden, Reprieve , 68 

Ruth Window Gordon, War Dead 30 

Eloise Herring Gorham, Longing 33 

Jack Greenberg, Love's Feet 110 

Bringing Up .-. 174 

May S. Greenwood, Three Cheers! _._123 

Margaret Groll, Recovnpense _ 107 

Guiliaume, Remembered .._ 77 

Florence English Hadden, Contentment . . 98 

J. A. Raining, A Song of the Winter 16 

Selma Hamann, Death ~ ~- 68 

Margaret Hamlett, Sack As I Have . - 169 

Katharine Washburn Harding, Shining Pool 54 

Joe Harrington, A Tree Passes 28 

Ethelyn Miller Hartwich, Madrigal,- 167 

Gene Hassler, The House Still Stands _. ..123 

Anne Phillips Hattan, Sleepy Time . ___ 78 

Ho There, Miner!. 141 

Rebecca Helman, A Certain Preacher . 147 

Clara Edmunds Hemingway, Moon of Falling 

Leaves . '51 

R. R. Hemingway, Golden Days . 100 

Gwen Hendrickson, A Song for Life . 82 

Wayman Hensley, A Prayer ._ . 74 

E. Lisette Herrling, The Weaver .. . _._ 86 

Herman E. Heydt, The Brook 112 

Gene Boardman Hoover, Armored : 95 

Mary M. Howard, Brown Leaves,.. 38 

Nora E. Huffman, Westward _ 80 

Ken Hughes, Homing 76 

Gernie Hunter, Symbol _ 22 


Carl B. Ike, Return ... 40 

Josephine Ingram, Marsh Fire 163 

David Raymond Innes, Did You Ever 39 

Elijah L. Jacobs, Early Frost 97 

Myrtle Reed James, Visions 62 

Paul Jans, True Victory 131 

Stella Jenks, Trouble _. 71 

Elsie Barras Jermy, Ambition 87 

Alma Johnson, Nirvana . 168 

Emma L. Johnston, In Praise of Forgetting 74 

Leila Jones, David Sings Again 113 

Carmen Judson, Early Autumn 33 

Dorothy Keene, Condolence ,_ 173 

Dr. Walter Gardner Kendall, Home ~ 26 

Marietta Conway Kennard, Beaten In The 

Market Place ... _.__ 164 

Minnie Markham Kerr, Summer Flight 63 

Katherine King, Home 129 

Cully Drake Kirkham, Song To My Father's 

Fields.... -,. 1 28 

Grenville Kleiser, A Daily Prayer _ 130 

Anthony F. Klinkner, Mother's Day 42 

Tears 8 1 

Mamie C Kneppcr, Aroused. ,.66 

Clara Miller Kray, Lament 138 

Margaret Kuhlman, So What ... 38 

Elenore Randall Lamkin, Traveller 13 

Jane McKay Lanning, Faith 71 

Laveda Lilly Lathrop, My Vow . .. 24 

Grace D. Leckliter, "Come to the Fair" 65 

Gordon LeClaire, Sanctuary 112 

Helen Miller Lehman, Brother hood... 157 

Bernice E. Lindford, Pioneer Mother 103 

Frances M. Lipp, Strange Treasure 40 

Bernice Logan, Widow in Deed 171 

William Stapleton Long, September Morn 49 

Henry Polk Lowenstein, O Let Me Sleep 9 

Criticism 95 

Robert Luhrs, In Conference 92 


Nell Mafaey, October Child 161 

Albert W. Macy, Penalties 137 

Pauline Shepard Mann, Sun Messages 122 

Helen Maring, Luck ..1 45 

Need - r 1 49 

Rosa Zagnoni Marinoni, For A First Christ mas.- 1 1 7 

Thirza Martin, River Song - 144 

BeulahMay, The Talking Wren 55 

Betty Lee Middlebrook, Song, 157 

J. Corson Miller, Midsummer Stars 145 

Mabel Endresen Miller, Refrain 18 

Queena Davidson Miller, China Adopts the 

Policy of the Scorched Land 165 

Clarence P. Milligan, Husbandman ^- 52 

Grace. Stillman Minck, Exchange of the Guard 156 

Cecil Miskimen, Universe.- 60 

John Richard Moreland, Tapers 32 

Etta Josephean Murfey, Nocturne in Silver 175 

Ray Murray, War's Recompense.. 106 

Tommy Murray, The Rebel 133 

Benjamin Musser, Courier to the Queen 34 

Lyla Myers, Glorious Failures 130 

Myrtle Alice McCarcy, April , 43 

Clara McClean, Moving 156 

Kay McCullough, Plainting Time 85 

Helen McGaughey, Substitute 12 

Alice Sutton McGeorge, Beauty 72 

J, C. MacManus, The Blind Beggar 42 

Lura Thomas McNair, / Shall Never Know 148 

Ethel Johnston McNaught, New Altars . 36 

Myron McWhinney, Death Takes Wings 166 

Rose Noller, Philosophy 38 

Miles J. O'Brien, O. O. Mclntyre 132 

Joy O'Hara, Elegies 151 

Stella Lavina Olson, Lilacs of Your Own 134 

Polly O'Quinn, A Fishin' I'll Go 147 

Mabel G* Parrish, Petunias __ w 71 

Ruby Pearl Patterson, Whatnot Shelves ZL~ 172 


Jocile Webb Pearson, Sumac 79 

Madeline Petersen, Cardinal' & Song 129 

Grace Phillips, Cobweb of Dreams 67 

Mabel W. Phillips, Roller Skating 104 

Marie Tello Phillips, Stay, Memories 42 

J. Mitchell Pilcher, Atdersgate 1 1 

Sibyl Pommer, Miser . 14 

Mabel Posegate, For A Golden Anniversary 60 

George B, Pratt, Flowers of the Islands 93 

Addie M. Proctor, Forecast 108 

Clyde R. Protsman, The Ways of Poets 44 

Dorothy Quick, The Poet's Heart 1 14 

Jean Rasey, Kitchen Gods 142 

Elva R. Ray, Curiosity 25 

Louise Crenshaw Ray, From Thinning Ranks 48 

Alice Craig Redhead, Night in the Country .. 62 

John Harsen Rhoades, The Epitaph 19 

William Nauns Ricks, The Way 124 

Calvin C. Rittenhouse, A Christmas Poem 1 6 

Arden Murdock Rockwood, The Pity of It 140 

Flozari Rockwood, Old Trouper 89 

Hortense Roberta Roberts, Fair Warning 148 

Kate H. Robinson, Tumblcweeds 155 

Marie Dawson Robinson, Bay berries in April 146 

Oscar H. Roesner, A Load of Scrap Iron 106 

Rehge L, Rolle, For an Ex-Husband 24 

Belle Rush, Memories 97 

Elmo Russ, Ocean Beds - 133 

Sand Dune Sage, Dawn Disillusion 39 

Pauline Sager, Chinese Rose 67 

Helen M. S'alitros, Dream Home * 45 

Henry DeWitt Saylor, In the Wood a Brown 

Thrush Sings 47 

Grace Sayre, Meadow Lark 13 

Mildred Schanck, Above the Loss 69 

Margaret Senff, Spendthrift - 63 

Joan Seward, Livin* In a Furnished Room 89 

Mina Shafer, Posthumous^ 153 

Rcna Sheffield, Flood Song 138 


Leah Sherman, Modern Gir /... 149 

Marion Sherman, Swing Music 25 

Alberta McMahon Sherwin, Indian Chief 23 

Martha Lyman Shillito, Souvenir 45 

Ethel Bunce Simonson, Keepsake * 91 

Katharine Neal Smith, / Am Content With Life.A26 
Katharine Sxrholl Smith, For These, Too, 

Thanks - 1 5 1 

Vernon L. Smith, Transition 134 

Lexie Jean Snyder, Regret.. 75 

Richard Leon Spain, In A Swing Band 34 

William Sheppard Sparks, My Friends 83 

Virginia Spates, Transient Tenants. 32 

Edith Lombard Squires, In Praise of Walking 55 

Olive Scott Stainsby, Romance of the Rain 176 

Laura Turnidge Stevens, Defeat in America 167 

C. Burgess Strong, Ghost-Dog ....._ 165 

Leonora Clawson Stryker, Your Tears 107 

Anne Southerne Tardy, Not Yet 50 

Adaline H. Tatman, Mended Dreams, 58 

Eva Sparks Taylor, Pretense 66 

Ruby McLeud Taylor, White Hawthorne 108 

Jessie Bell Thabes, "Being Friends' 160 

Grace H. Thomas, The Hyprocrite 172 

Fred J. Thomas, Close Call 99 

B.eryl V. Thompson, Inventory , 163 

Lalia Mitchell Thornton, Road _ 117 

Zilla Vollmer 1 Tietgen, Struggle 99 

Lucia Trent, Your Song .. _ 12 

Maude Blixt Trone, Tides in The Wind 155 

Jennie Claire Ulan, Trees 87 

Ed C, Volkert, When Evening Comes 80 

Flora Brownlee Walker, Paradoxical 96 

Daisy Covin Walker, Things I Love 21 

Zclla Wallace, Pioneer Hands 78 

Milly Walton, Carnival .52 

W. C. A. Wallar, Thanks for the Flag 161 

May Williams Ward, Sky in Summer, 116 


William Allen Ward, Garden of Life...: 74 

Tom Watt, Youth ... , 8 1 

Genneva Dicky Watson, Flight of [he Bombers.. -1 67 

Pen Edward Watson, Thirst 141 

Esther Weakley, His Last Letter 113 

Tessa Sweazy Webb, When Opportunities 

Slip By - -- 109 

Claude Weimer, Vagrants. 121 

M. Starrett Wetzel, Poetry 64 

Yea. Verily 64 

Florence Ralston Werum, Utopia 126 

John Gallinari Whidding, Brass Earrings 77 

Ethel Fairfield White, Technicolor with Sound 

Effects - 5 1 

Vera White, The Perfectionist 122 

Irene Wilde, Day of Memory 49 

Gladys Williamson, College Mother 117 

Fay Willoughby, Friendship , 158 

Calvin Dill Wilson, For Others Only 57 

Nell Griffith Wilson, Shansi Province 152 

Viola Bailey Wilson, Prisoner 98 

Lucile Withers, Dear House 101 

Ethel Ainsfield Wolf, Cat and Dried 83 

Ethel Titus Worthen, Contrition 65 

Stephen Wright, New England Stonewalls 27 

CX Wulfing, In Naming Worth ^.100 

Jessica Morehcad Young, Beauty 84